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Then they made the sign which no Indian makes outside 
of the Medicine Lodges 

[Brother Square-toes ] 



Rewards and Fairies 


By Rudyard Kipling 








GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1922 

















COPYRIGHT, I 9 IO 

By RUDYARD KIPLING 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 



^ 1 Sr&i Y 

7-Z 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 




A CHARM 


Take of English earth as much 
As either hand may rightly clutch . 
In the taking of it breathe 
Prayer for all who lie beneath — 

A Jot the great nor well bespoke y 
But the mere uncounted folk 
Of whose life and death is none 
Report or lamentation. 

Lay that earth upon thy hearty 
A nd thy sickness shall depart! 

Jt shall sweeten and make whole 
Revered breath and festered soul; 

It shall mightily restrain 
Over-busy hand and brain; 

It shall ease thy mortal strife 
'Gainst the immortal woe of life 9 
Till thyself restored shall prove 
By what grace the Heavens do move . 

Take of English flowers these — 
Spring s full-faced primroses , 
Summer s wild wide-hearted rose y 
Autumn s wall-flower of the close> 


Vlll 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


And , thy darkness to illume , 

Winter s bee-thronged ivy-bloom. 

Seek and serve them where they bide 
From Candlemas to Christmas-tide , 
For these simples used aright 
Can restore a failing sight . 

These shall cleanse and purify 
Webbed and inward-turning eye; 
These shall show thee treasure hid 9 
Thy familiar fields amid; 

And reveal {which is thy need ) 
Every man a King indeed! 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A Charm ...... 


vii 

Introduction . 


xiii 

Cold Iron ...... 


3 

Cold Iron ...... 


27 

The Two Cousins . 


3i 

Gloriana ...... 


33 

The Looking-Glass . . . . 


53 

A Truthful Song , . . * 


57 

The Wrong Thing .... 


59 

King Henry VII and the Shipwrights 


83 

The Way Through the IVoods 


89 

Marklake Witches .... 


9 1 

Brookland Road ..... 


”7 

The Run of the Downs .... 


121 

The Knife and the Naked Chalk . 


123 

Song of the Men s Side .... 


145 

Philadelphia . . • • • 


149 

3rother Square-toes .... 

• 

*53 


ix 







CONTENTS 


PAGE 


If — .... 

A St. Helena Lullaby . 




181 

185 

‘A Priest in Spite of Himself* 




187 

4 Poor Honest Men 9 




219 

Eddi 9 s Service 




225 

The Conversion of St. Wilfrid 




227 

Song of the Red War-Boat 




249 

An Astrologer s Song 




255 

A Doctor of Medicine . 




259 

‘Our Fathers of Old 9 




281 

The Thousandth Man . 




285 

Simple Simon 




287 

Frankie 9 s Trade . 




3°9 

The Ballad of Mine pit Shaw 




3*3 

The Tree of Justice 




3 i 7 

A Carol . . • . 

• 

• 


343 








ILLUSTRATIONS 


Then they made the sign which no Indian 

makes outside of the Medicine Lodges Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

“Admiral Boy—Vice-Admiral Babe,” says Glo- 

riana, “I cry your pardon” ... 44 

I kneeled and he tapped me on the shoulder. 

“Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,” he says . . 76 

“You’ll do many things, and eating and drink¬ 
ing with a dead man beyond the world’s end 
will be the least of them ” ... 198 





INTRODUCTION 


Once upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, 
living in the English country, had the good fortune 
to meet with Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow, alias Nick 
o’ Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the last survivor 
in England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their 
proper name, of course, is ‘The People of the Hills/ 
This Puck, by means of the magic of Oak, Ash, and 
Thorn, gave the children power — 

To see what they should see and hear what they should hear, 

Though it should have happened three thousand year. 


The result was that from time to time, and in dif¬ 
ferent places on the farm and in the fields and the 
country about, they saw and talked to some rather 
interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a 
Knight of the Norman Conquest, another a young 
Centurion of a Roman Legion stationed in England, 
another a builder and decorator of King Henry VIPs 
time; and so on and so forth; as I have tried to explain 
in a book called Puck of Pook’s Hill. 

A year or so later, the children met Puck once more, 
and though they were then older and wiser, and wore 
boots regularly instead of going barefooted when they 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


xii 

got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever, and 
introduced them to more people of the old days. 

He was careful, of course, to take away their mem¬ 
ory of their walks and conversations afterward, but 
otherwise he did not interfere: and Dan and Una 
would find the strangest sort of persons in their 
gardens or woods. 

In the stories that follow I am trying to tell 
something about those people. 


Cold Iron 































COLD IRON 


When Dan and Una had arranged to go out before 
breakfast, they did not remember it was Midsummer 
Morning. They only wanted to see the otter which, 
old Hobden said, had been fishing their brook for 
weeks; and early morning was the time to surprise 
him. As they tip-toed out of the house into the wonder¬ 
ful stillness, the church clock struck five. Dan took a 
few steps across the dew-blobbed lawn, and looked at 
his black footprints. 

‘I think we ought to be kind to our poor boots/ 
he said. ‘They’ll get horrid wet/ 

It was their first Summer in boots, and they hated 
them, so they took them off* and slung them round 
their necks, and paddled joyfully over the dripping 
turf where the shadows lay the wrong way, like evening 
in the East. 

The sun was well up and warm, but, by the brook, 
the last of the night mist still fumed off* the water. 
They picked up the chain of otter’s footprints on the 
mud, and followed it from the bank, between the 
weeds and the drenched mowing, while the birds 
shouted with surprise. Then the track left the brook 
and became a smear, as though a log had been dragged 
along. 


3 


4 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

They traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the 
mill-sluice to the Forge, round Hobden’s garden, 
and then up the slope till it ran out on the short turf 
and fern of Pook’s Hill, and they heard the cock- 
pheasants crowing in the woods behind them. 

‘No use!’ said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound. 
‘The dew’s drying off, and old Hobden says otters’ 1 ! 
travel for miles.’ 

‘I’m sure we’ve travelled miles.’ Una fanned her¬ 
self with her hat. ‘How still it is! It’s going to be 
a regular roaster.’ She looked down the valley, where 
no chimney yet smoked. 

‘Hobden’s up!’ Dan pointed to the open door 
of the Forge cottage. ‘What d’you suppose he has 
for breakfast ?’ 

‘One of them. He says they eat good all times of 
the year.’ Una jerked her head at some stately 
pheasants going down to the brook for a drink. 

A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under 
their bare feet, yapped, and trotted off. 

‘Ah, Mus’ Reynolds — Mus’ Reynolds,’ — Dan was 
quoting from old Hobden — ‘If I knowed all you 
knowed, I’d know something.’ 1 

‘I say,’ Una lowered her voice, ‘you know that 
funny feeling of things having happened before. I 
felt it when you said “Mus’ Reynolds.’” 

‘So did I,’ Dan began. ‘What is it ?’ 

They faced each other stammering with excitement. 

‘Wait a shake! I’ll remember in a minute. Wasn’t 


* See * The Winged Hats ’ in Puck of Po^k’? Hill. 




COLD IRON 


5 

it something about a fox — last year. Oh, I nearly 
had it then!’ Dan cried. 

‘Be quiet!’ said Una, prancing excitedly. ‘There 
was something happened before we met the fox last 
year. Hills! Broken Hills —the play at the theatre 
— see what you see-’ 

‘I remember now/ Dan shouted. ‘It’s as plain 
as the nose on your face — Pook’s Hill — Puck’s 
Hill —Puck!’ 

‘I remember, too/ said Una. ‘And it’s Mid¬ 
summer Day again!’ 

The young fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked 
out, chewing a green-topped rush. 

‘Good Midsummer Morning to you! Here’s a 
happy meeting/ said he. They shook hands all 
round, and asked questions. 

‘You’ve wintered well/ he said after a while, and 
looked them up and down. ‘Nothing much wrong with 
you, seemingly.’ 

‘They’ve put us into boots/ said Una. ‘Look 
at my feet — they’re all pale white, and my toes are 
squdged together awfully.’ 

‘Yes — boots make a difference/ Puck wriggled 
his brown, square, hairy foot, and cropped a dande¬ 
lion flower between the big toe and the next. 

‘I could do that — last year/ Dan said dismally, as he 
tried and failed. ‘And boots simply ruin one’s climbing.’ 

‘There must be some advantage to them, I suppose/ 
sail Puck, ‘or folk wouldn’t wear them. Shall we 
come this way ? ’ 


6 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


They sauntered along side by side till they reached 
the gate at the far end of the hillside. Here they 
halted just like cattle, and let the sun warm their 
backs while they listened to the flies in the wood. 

‘Little Lindens is awake/ said Una, as she hung with 
her chin on the top rail. ‘See the chimney smoke ?’ 

‘To-day’s Thursday, isn’t it?’ Puck turned to 
look at the old pink farmhouse across the little valley. 
‘Mrs. Vincey’s baking day. Bread should rise well 
this weather.’ He yawned, and that set them both 
yawning. 

The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook 
in every direction. They felt that little crowds were 
stealing past. 

‘ Doesn’t that sound like — er — the People of 
the Hills?’ said Una. 

‘It’s the birds and wild things drawing up to the 
woods before people get about,’ said Puck, as though 
he were Ridley the keeper. 

‘Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like/ 

‘As I remember ’em, the People of the Hills used 
to make more noise. They’d settle down for the day 
rather like small birds settling down for the night. 
But that was in the days when they carried the high 
hand. Oh, me! The deeds that I’ve had act and 
part in, you’d scarcely believe!’ 

‘I like that!’ said Dan. ‘After all you told us las# 
year, too!’ 

‘Only, the minute you went away, you made us 
forget everything,’ said Una. 


COLD IRON 


7 

Puck laughed and shook his head. ‘I shall this 
year, too. I’ve given you seizin of Old England, and 
Pve taken away your Doubt and Fear, but your 
memory and remembrance between whiles Til keep 
where old Billy Trott kept his night-lines — and 
that’s where he could draw ’em up and hide ’em at 
need. Does that suit?’ He twinkled mischievously. 

‘It’s got to suit,’ said Una, and laughed. ‘We 
can’t magic back at you.’ She folded her arms and 
leaned against the gate. ‘Suppose, now, you wanted 
to magic me into something — an otter ? Could 
you ? ’ 

‘Not with those boots round your neck.’ 

‘I’ll take them off.’ She threw them on the turf. 
Dan’s followed immediately. ‘Now!’ she said. 

‘Less than ever now you’ve trusted me. Where 
there’s true faith, there’s no call for magic.’ Puck’s 
slow smile broadened all over his face. 

‘But what have boots to do with it?’ said Una, 
perching on the gate. 

‘There’s cold iron in them,’ said Puck, and settled 
beside her. ‘Nails in the soles, I mean. It makes 
a difference.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘Can’t you feel it does? You wouldn’t like to 
go back to bare feet again, same as last year, would 
you ? Not really ? ’ 

‘No — o. I suppose I shouldn’t — not for always. 
I’m growing up, you know,’ said Una. 

‘ But you told us last year, in the Long Slip — when 


8 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

we met you — that you didn’t mind Cold Iron,’ said 
Dan. 

‘/ don’t; but folk in housen, as the People of the 
Hills call them, must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk 
in housen are born on the near side of Cold Iron — 
there’s iron in every man’s house, isn’t there? They 
handle Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their 
fortune’s made or spoilt by Cold Iron in some shape 
or other. That’s how it goes with Flesh and Blood, 
and one can’t prevent it.’ 

‘I don’t quite see. How do you mean?’ said Dan. 

‘ It would take me some time to tell you.’ 

‘Oh, it’s ever so long to breakfast,’ said Dan. ‘We 
looked in the larder before we came out.’ He unpock¬ 
eted one big hunk of bread and Una another, which 
they shared with Puck. * 

‘That’s Little Lindens’ baking,’ he said, as his 
white teeth sunk in it. ‘I know Mrs. Vincey’s hand.’ 
He ate with a slow sideways thrust and grind, just 
like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped 
a crumb. The sun flashed on Little Lindens’ win¬ 
dows, and the cloudless sky grew stiller and hotter 
in the valley. 

‘Ah — Cold Iron,’ he said at last to the impatient 
children. ‘Folk in housen, as the People of the 
Hills say, grow so careless about Cold Iron. They’ll 
nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget 
to put it over the back. Then, some time or other, 
the People of the Hills slip in, find the cradle-babe 
in the corner, and-’ 



COLD IRON 


9 

‘Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling/ 
Una cried. 

‘No/ said Puck, firmly. ‘All that talk of change¬ 
lings is people’s excuse for their own neglect. Never 
believe ’em. I’d whip ’em at the cart-tail through 
three parishes if I had my way.’ 

. ‘But they don’t do it now/ said Una. 

‘Whip, or neglect children ? Umm! Some folks and 
some fields never alter. But the People of the Hills 
didn’t work any changeling tricks. They’d tip-toe 
in and whisper, and weave round the cradle-babe 
in the chimney-corner — a fag-end of a charm here, 
or half a spell there — like kettles singing; but 
when the babe’s mind came to bud out afterwards, 
it would act differently from other people in its station. 
That’s no advantage to man or maid. So I wouldn’t 
allow it with my folks’ babies here. I told Sir Huon 
so once.’ 

‘Who was Sir Huon?’ Dan asked, and Puck 
turned on him in quiet astonishment. 

‘Sir Huon of Bordeaux — he succeeded King 
Oberon. He had been a bold knight once, but he 
was lost on the road to Babylon, a long while back. 
Have you ever heard, “How many miles to Babylon ?’” 

‘Of course/ said Dan. 

‘Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was 
new. But about tricks on mortal babies. I said 
to Sir Huon in the fern here, on just such a morning 
as this: “If you crave to act and influence on folk 
in housen, which I know is your desire, why don’t 


10 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


you take some human cradle-babe by fair dealing, 
and bring him up among yourselves on the far side 
of Cold Iron — as Oberon did in time past ? Then 
you could make him a splendid fortune, and send him 
out into the world ? ” 

‘“Time past is past time,” says Sir Huon. “I 
doubt if we could do it. For one thing, the babe 
would have to be taken without wronging man, woman 
or child. For another, he'd have to be born on the 
far side of Cold Iron — in some house where no Cold 
Iron ever stood,— and for yet the third, he’d have 
to be kept from Cold Iron all his days till we let him 
find his fortune. No, it’s not easy,” he said, and he 
rode off, thinking. You see, Sir Huon had been a man 
once. 

‘I happened to attend Lewes Market next Woden’s 
Day even, and watched the slaves being sold there — 
same as pigs are sold at Robertsbridge Market nowa¬ 
days. Only the pigs have rings on their noses, and 
the slaves had rings round their necks.’ 

‘What sort of rings ?’ said Dan. 

‘A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb 
thick, just like a quoit, but with a snap to it for to 
snap around the slave’s neck. They used to do a big 
trade in slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship them 
to all parts of Old England, packed in oak sawdust, 
But, as I was saying, there was a farmer out of ths 
Weald who had bought a woman with a babe in het 
arms, and he didn’t want any encumbrances to hei 
driving his beasts home for him.’ 


COLD IRON ii 

‘Beast himself !’ said Una, and kicked her bare heel 
on the gate. 

‘So he blamed the auctioneer. “It’s none o’ my 
baby,” the wench puts in. “I took it off a woman 
in our gang who died on Terrible Down yesterday.” 
“ I’ll take it off to the Church then,” says the farmer, 
“ Mother Church’ll make a monk of it, and we’ll step 
along home.” 

‘It was dusk then. He slipped down to St. Pan- 
eras’ Church, and laid the babe at the cold chapel 
door. I breathed on the back of his stooping neck — 
and — I’ve heard he never could be warm at any fire 
afterwards. I should have been surprised if he could! 
Then I whipped up the babe, and came flying home 
here like a bat to his belfry. 

‘On the dewy break of morning of Thor’s own 
day — just such a day as this — I laid the babe 
outside the Hill here, and the People flocked up and 
wondered at the sight. 

‘“You’ve brought him, then?” Sir Huon said, 
staring like any mortal man. 

“‘Yes, and he’s brought his mouth with him too,” 
I said. The babe was crying loud for his breakfast. 

“‘What is he?” says Sir Huon, when the women¬ 
folk had drawn him under to feed him. 

‘“Full Moon and Morning Star may know,” ] 
says. “/ don’t. By what I could make out of him 
in the moonlight, he’s without brand or blemish. I’ll 
answer for it that he’s born on the far side of Cold 
Iron, for he was born under a shaw on Terrible Down; 


12 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


and Eve wronged neither man, woman nor child 
in taking him, for he is the son of a dead slave 
woman/’ 

‘“All to the good, Robin,” Sir Huon said. “He’ll 
be the less anxious to leave us. Oh, we’ll give him 
a splendid fortune, and he shall act and influence 
on folk in housen as we have always craved.” His 
Lady came up then, and drew him under to watch 
the babe’s wonderful doings.’ 

‘Who was his Lady ?’ said Dan. 

‘The Lady Esclairmonde. She had been a wo¬ 
man once, till she followed Sir Huon across the 
fern, as we say. Babies are no special treat to me — 
I’ve watched too many of them — so I stayed on the 
Hill. Presently I heard hammering down at the Forge 
there,’ Puck pointed toward Hobden’s cottage. ‘It 
was too early for any workmen, but it passed through 
my mind that the breaking day was Thor’s own day. 
A slow North-East wind blew up and set the oaks 
sawing and fretting in a way I remembered: so I 
slipped over to see what I could see.’ 

‘And what did you see ?’ 

‘A smith forging something or other out of Cold 
Iron. When it was finished, he weighed it in his 
hand (his back was toward me), and tossed it from 
him a longish quoit-throw down the valley. I saw 
Cold Iron flash in the sun, but I couldn’t quite make 
out where it fell. That didn’t trouble me. I knew 
it would be found sooner or later by some one.’ 

‘How did you know?’ Dan went on. 


COLD IRON 


i3 

‘Because I knew the Smith that made it/ said 
Puck quietly. 

‘Wayland Smith ?’ 1 Una suggested. 

‘No. I should have passed the time o’ day with 
Wayland Smith, of course. This other was different. 
So’ -— Puck made a queer crescent in the air with 
his finger — ‘ I counted the blades of grass under my 
nose till the wind dropped and he had gone — he 
and his Hammer.’ 

‘Was it Thor then?’ Una murmured under her 
breath. 

‘Who else? It was Thor’s own day.’ Puck re¬ 
peated the sign. ‘I didn’t tell Sir Huon or his Lady 
what I’d seen. Bprrow trouble for yourself if that’s 
your nature, but don’t lend it to your neighbours. 
Moreover, I might have been mistaken about the Smith’s 
work. He might have been making things for mere 
amusement, though it wasn’t like him, or he might have 
thrown away an old piece of made iron. One can 
never be sure. So I held my tongue and enjoyed the 
babe. He was a wonderful child — and the People 
of the Hills were so set on him, they wouldn’t have 
believed me. He took to me wonderfully. As soon 
as he could walk he’d putter forth with me all about 
my Hill here. Fern makes soft falling! He knew 
when day broke on earth above, for he’d thump, 
thump, thump, like an old buck-rabbit in a bury and 
I’d hear him say “Opy!” till some one who knew 
the Charm let him out, and then it would be “ Robin! 


1 See 4 Weland’s Sword’ in Fuel of Pook’s Hill. 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


H 

Robin!” all round Robin Hood’s barn, as we say, 
till he’d found me.’ 

‘The dear!’ said Una. ‘I’d like to have seen him!’ 

‘Yes, he was a boy. And when it came to learn¬ 
ing his words — spells and such like — he’d sit on the 
Hill in the long shadows, worrying out bits of charms 
to try on passers-by. And when the bird flew to 
him, or the tree bowed to him for pure love’s sake 
(like everything else on my Hill), he’d shout, “Robin! 
Look — see! Look, see, Robin!” and sputter out 
some spell or other that they had taught him, *11 
wrong end first, till I hadn’t the heart to tell him it 
was his own dear self and not the words that worked 
the wonder. When he got more abreast of his Words, 
and could cast spells for sure, as we say, he took more 
and more notice of things and people in the world. 
People of course, always drew him, for he was mortal 
all through. 

‘Seeing that he was free to move among folk in 
housen, under or over Cold Iron, I used to take him 
along with me night-walking, where he could watch 
folk, and I could keep him from touching Cold Iron. 
That wasn’t so difficult as it sounds, because there 
are plenty of things besides Cold Iron in housen to 
catch a boy’s fancy. He was a handful, though! I 
shan’t forget when I took him to Little Lindens — 
his first night under a roof. The smell of the rush¬ 
lights and the bacon on the beams — they were stuffing 
a feather-bed too, and it was a drizzling warm night — 
got into his head. Before I could stop him — we were 


COLD IRON 


*5 

hiding in the bakehouse — he’d whipped up a storm 
of wildfire, with flashlights and voices, which sent the 
folk shrieking into the garden, and a girl overset a hive 
there, and,— of course he didn’t know till then such 
things could touch him — he got badly stung, and 
came home with his face looking like kidney-potatoes! 

‘You can imagine how angry Sir Huon and Lady 
Esclairmonde were with poor Robin! They said the 
Boy was never to be trusted with me night-walking 
any more — and he took about as much notice of their 
order as he did of the bee-stings. Night after night, 
as soon as it was dark, I’d pick up his whistle in the 
wet fern, and off we’d flit together among folk in 
housen till break of day — he asking questions, and 
I answering according to my knowledge. Then we 
fell into mischief again!’ Puck laughed till the gate 
rattled. 

‘We came across a man up at Brightling who was 
beating his wife with a bat in the garden. I was just 
going to toss the man over his own woodlump when 
the Boy jumped the hedge, and ran at him. Of course 
the woman took her husband’s part, and while the 
man beat him, the woman scratted his face. It wasn’t 
till I danced among the cabbages like Brightling Beacon 
all ablaze that they gave up and ran indoors. The 
Boy’s fine green-and-gold clothes were torn all to pieces, 
and he had been welted in twenty places with the man’s 
bat, and scratted by the woman’s nails to pieces. He 
looked like a Robertsbridge hopper on a Monday 
morning. 



i6 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


“‘ Robin,” said he, while I was trying to clean him 
down with a bunch of hay, “I don’t quite understand 
folk in housen. I went to help that old woman, and 
she hit me, Robin!” 

‘“What else did you expect?” I said. “That was 
the one time when you might have worked some of 
your charms, instead of running into three times your 
weight.” 

‘“I didn’t think,” he says. “But I caught the man 
one on the head that was as good as any charm. Did 
you see it work, Robin ?” 

‘“Mind your nose!” I said. “Bleed it on a dockleaf 
— not your sleeve, for pity’s sake.” I knew what the 
Lady Esclairmonde would say. 

6 He didn’t care. He was as happy as a gipsy 
with a stolen pony, and the front part of his gold coat, 
all blood and grass stains, looked like ancient sacrifices. 

‘Of course the People of the Hills laid the blame 
on me. The Boy could do nothing wrong, in their 
eyes. 

‘“You are bringing him up to act and influence on 
folk in housen, when you’re ready to let him go,” I 
said. “Now he’s begun to do it, why do you cry 
shame on me ? That’s no shame. It’s his nature 
drawing him to his kind.” 

“‘But we don’t want him to begin that way,” the 
Lady Esclairmonde said. “We intend a splendid 
fortune for him — not your flitter-by-night, hedge¬ 
jumping, gipsy-work.” 

‘“I don’t blame you, Robin,” says Sir Huon, 


COLD IRON 


i7 


“but I do think you might look after the Boy more 
closely/’ 

‘“I’ve kept him away from Cold Iron these sixteen 
years,” I said. “You know as well as I do, the first 
time he touches Cold Iron, he’ll find his own fortune, 
in spite of everything you intend for him. You owe 
me something for that.” 

‘Sir Huon, having been a man, was going to 
allow me the right of it; but the Lady Esclairmonde, 
being the Mother of all Mothers, overpersuaded 
him. 

‘“We’re very grateful,” Sir Huon said, “but we 
think that just for the present, you are about too much 
with him on the Hill.” 

‘“Though you have said it,” I said, “I will give 
you a second chance.” I did not like being called to 
account for my doings on my own Hill. I wouldn’t 
have stood it even that far except I loved the Boy. 

“‘No! No!” says the Lady Esclairmonde. “He’s 
never any trouble when he’s left to me and himself. 
It’s your fault.” 

“‘You have said it,” I answered. “Hear me! 
From now on till the Boy has found his fortune, what¬ 
ever that may be, I vow to you all on my Hill, by Oak, 
and Ash, and Thorn, and by the Hammer of Asa 
Thor”’ — again Puck made that curious double-cut 
in the air — “‘that you may leave me out of all your 
counts and reckonings.” Then I went out,’ — he 
snapped his fingers — ‘like the puff of a candle, and 
though they called and cried, they made nothing by 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


it. I didn’t promise not to keep an eye on the Boy, 
though. I watched him close — close — close! 

‘When he found what his people had forced me to 
do, he gave them a piece of his mind, but they all 
kissed and cried round him, and being only a boy, 
he came over to their way of thinking (I don’t blame 
him), and called himself unkind, and ungrateful; and 
it all ended in fresh shows and plays, and magics to 
distract him from folk in housen. Dear heart alive! 
How he used to call and call on me, and I couldn’t 
answer, or even let him know that I was near!’ 

‘Not even once?’ said Una. ‘If he was very 
lonely ? ’ 

‘No, he couldn’t,’ said Dan, who had been think¬ 
ing. ‘Didn’t you swear by the Hammer of Thor 
that you wouldn’t, Puck ?’ 

‘By that Hammer!’ was the deep rumbled reply. 
Then he came back to his soft speaking voice. ‘And 
the Boy was lonely, when he couldn’t see me any 
more. He began to try to learn all learning (he had 
good teachers), but I saw him lift his eyes from the 
big black books toward folk in housen all the time. 
He studied song-making (good teachers he had too!), 
but he sung those songs with his back toward the 
Hill, and his face toward folk. / know! I have sat 
and grieved over him grieving within a rabbit’s jump 
of him. Then he studied the High, Low and Middle 
Magic. He had promised the Lady Esclairmonde he 
would never go near folk in housen, so he had to 
make shows and shadows for his mind to chew on.’ 


COLD IRON 


19 


‘What sort of shows ?’ said Dan. 

‘Just boy’s magic, as we say. Pll show you some, 
some time. It pleased him for the while, and it didn’t 
hurt any one in particular except a few men coming 
home late from the taverns. But I knew what it was a 
sign of, and I followed him like a weasel follows a rabbit. 
As good a boy as ever lived! I’ve seen him with 
Sir Huon and the Lady Esclairmonde stepping just 
as they stepped to avoid the track of Cold Iron in a 
furrow, or walking wide of some old ash-tot because 
a man had left his swop-hook or spade there; and 
all his heart aching to go straightforward among folk 
in housen all the time. Oh, a good boy! They 
always intended a fine fortune for him — but they 
could never find it in their heart to let him begin. 
I’ve heard that many warned them, but they wouldn’t 
be warned. So it happened as it happened. 

‘One hot night I saw the Boy roving about here 
wrapped in his flaming discontents. There was flash 
on flash against the clouds, and rush on rush of 
shadows down the valley till the shaws were full of 
his hounds giving tongue, and the woodways were 
packed with his knights in armour riding down into 
the water-mists — all his own magic, of course. 
Behind them you could see great castles lifting slow 
and splendid on arches of moonshine, with maidens 
waving their hands at the windows, which all turned 
into roaring rivers; and then would come the dark¬ 
ness of his own young heart wiping out the whole 
slateful. But boy’s magic doesn’t trouble me — or 


20 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


Merlin’s either for that matter. I followed the boy 
by the flashes and the whirling wildfire of his dis¬ 
content, and oh, but I grieved for him! Oh, but I 
grieved for him! He pounded back and forth like a 
bullock in a strange pasture — sometimes alone —> 
sometimes waist-deep among his shadow-hounds —• 
sometimes leading his shadow-knights on a hawk¬ 
winged horse to rescue his shadow-girls. I never 
guessed he had such magic at his command; but it’s 
often that way with boys. 

‘Just when the owl comes home for the second 
time, I saw Sir Huon and the Lady ride down my 
Hill where there’s not much magic allowed except 
mine. They were very pleased at the Boy’s magic 
— our valley flared with it — and I heard them set¬ 
tling his splendid fortune when they should find it in 
their hearts to let him go to act and influence among 
folk in housen. Sir Huon was for making him a 
great King somewhere or other, and the Lady was for 
making him a marvellous wise man whom all should 
praise for his skill and kindness. She was very kind- 
hearted. 

‘Of a sudden we saw the flashes of his discontent 
turned back on the clouds, and his shadow-hounds 
stopped baying. 

‘“There’s Magic fighting Magic over yonder,” 
the Lady Esclairmonde cried, reining up. “Who 
is against him ?” 

‘ I could have told her, but I did not count it any of my 
business to speak of Asa Thor’s comings and goings.’ 


COLD IRON 


21 


‘How did you know?* said Una. 

‘A slow North-East wind blew up, sawing and 
fretting through the oaks in a way I remembered. 
The wildfire roared up, one last time in one sheet, and 
snuffed out like a rush-light, and a bucketful of sting¬ 
ing hail fell. We heard the Boy walking in the Long 
Slip — where I first met you last year. 

“‘Here, oh, come here!” said the Lady Esclair- 
monde, and stretched out her arms in the dark. 

‘He was coming slowly, but he stumbled in the 
footpath, being, of course, mortal man. 

‘“Why, what’s this?” he said to himself. We three 
heard him. 

‘“Hold, lad, hold! ’Ware Cold Iron!” said Sir 
Huon, and they two swept down like night-jars, cry¬ 
ing as they rode. 

‘I ran at their stirrups, but it was too late. We 
felt that the Boy had touched Cold Iron somewhere 
in the dark, for the Horses of the Hill shied off, and 
whipped round, snorting. 

‘Then I judged it was time for me to show myself 
in my own shape; so I did. 

‘“Whatever it is,” I said, “he has taken hold of it. 
Now we must find out whatever it is that he has taken 
hold of: for that will be his fortune.” 

‘ “ Come here, Robin,” the Boy shouted, as soon as he 
heard my voice. “I don’t know what I’ve hold of.” 

‘“It is in your hands,” I called back. “Tell us 
if it is hard and cold, with jewels atop. For that will 
be a King’s Sceptre.” 


22 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘“Not by a furrow-long,” he said, and stooped 
and tugged in the dark. We heard him. 

“‘Has it a handle and two cutting edges?” I called. 
“For that’ll be a Knight’s Sword.” 

“‘No, it hasn’t,” he says. “It’s neither plough¬ 
share, whittle, hook, nor crook, nor aught I’ve yet 
seen men handle.” By this time he was scratting 
in the dirt to prize it up. 

‘“Whatever it is, you know who put it there, Robin,” 
said Sir Huon to me, “or you would not ask those 
questions. You should have told me as soon as you 
knew.” 

“‘What could you or I have done against the Smith 
that made it and laid it for him to find ?” I said, and 
I whispered Sir Huon what I had seen at the Forge 
on Thor’s Day, when the babe was first brought to 
the Hill. 

‘“Oh, good-bye, our dreams!” said Sir Huon. 
“It’s neither sceptre, sword nor plough! Mavbe 
yet it’s a bookful of learning, bound with iron clasps. 
There’s a chance for a splendid fortune in that 
sometimes.” 

‘But we knew we were only speaking to comfort 
ourselves, and the Lady Esclairmonde, having been a 
woman, said so. 

‘“Thur aie! Thor help us!” the Boy called. “It 
is round, without end, Cold Iron, four fingers wide 
and a thumb thick, and there is writing on the breadth 
of it.” 

‘“Read the writing if you have the learning,” I 


COLD IRON 23 

called. The darkness had lifted by then, and the 
owl was out over the fern again. 

‘He called back, reading the runes on the iron:— 

u Few can see 
Further forth 
Than when the Child 
Meets the Cold Iron.” 

and there he stood, in clear starlight, with a new, 
heavy, shining slave-ring round his proud neck. 

‘“Is this how it goes?” he asked, while the Lady 
Esclairmonde cried. 

“‘That is how it goes,” I said. He hadn’t snapped 
the catch home yet, though. 

“‘What fortune does it mean for him?” said Sir 
Huon, while the Boy fingered the ring. “You who 
walk under Cold Iron, you must tell us and teach us.” 

“‘Tell I can, but teach I cannot,” I said. “The 
virtue of the Ring is only that he must go among folk 
in housen henceforward, doing what they want done, 
or what he knows they need, all Old England over. 
Never will he be his own master, nor yet ever any 
man’s. He will get half he gives, and give twice what 

he gets, till his life’s last breath; and if he lays aside 

his load before he draws that last breath, all his work 
will go for naught.” 

“‘Oh, cruel, wicked Thor!” cried the Lady Esclair¬ 
monde. “Ah, look, see, all of you! The catch is 

still open! He hasn’t locked it. He can still take it 

off. He can still come back. Come back!” She 


*4 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

went as near as she dared, but she could not lay hands 
on Cold Iron. The Boy could have taken it off, yes. 
We waited to see if he would, but he put up his hand, 
and the snap locked home. 

‘“What else could I have done?” said he. 

‘“Surely, then, you will do,” I said. “Morning’s 
coming, and if you three have any farewells to make, 
make them now, for after sunrise, Cold Iron must be 
your master.” 

‘ So they three sat down, cheek by wet cheek, telling 
over their farewells till morning light. As good a boy 
as ever lived, he was.’ 

‘And what happened to him?’ asked Dan. 

‘When morning came, Cold Iron was master of him 
and his fortune, and he went to work among folk in 
housen. Presently he came across a maid like-minded 
with himself, and they were wedded, and had bushels 
of children, as the saying is. Perhaps you’ll meet 
some of his breed, this year.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Una. ‘But what did the poor 
Lady Esclairmonde do?’ 

‘What can you do when Asa Thor lays the Cold 
Iron in a lad’s path ? She and Sir Huon were com¬ 
forted to think they had given the Boy good store of 
learning to act and influence on folk in housen. For 
he was a good boy! Isn’t it getting on for breakfast 
time ? I’ll walk with you a piece.’ 

When they were well in the centre of the bone-dry 
fern, Dan nudged Una, who stopped and put on a 
boot as quickly as she could. 


COLD IRON 


25 

‘Now/ she said, ‘you can’t get any Oak, Ash, and 
Thorn leaves from here, and’—she balanced wildly 
on one leg — ‘I’m standing on Cold Iron. What’ll 
you do if we don’t go away?’ 

‘E-eh? Of all mortal impudence!’ said Puck, as 
Dan, also in one boot, grabbed his sister’s hand to 
steady himself. He walked round them, shaking 
with delight. ‘You think I can only work with a 
handful of dead leaves ? This comes of taking awaj) 
your Doubt and Fear! I’ll show you!’ 


A minute later they charged into old Hobden at 
\is simple breakfast of cold roast pheasant, shouting 
that there was a wasps’ nest in the fern which they 
had nearly stepped on, and asking him to come and 
smoke it out. 

‘It’s too early for wops-nestes, an’ I don’t go diggin’ 
in the Hill, not for shillin’s,’ said the old man placidly. 
‘You’ve a thorn in your foot, Miss Una. Sit down, 
and put on your t’other boot. You’re too old to be 
caperin' barefoot on a empty stomach. Stay it with 
this chicken o’ mine.’ 






COLD IRON 


‘ Gold is for the mistress — silver for the maid! 

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade . 9 
"Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall, 

But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of them all!’ 

So he made rebellion ’gainst the King his liege, 
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege — 
‘Nay!’ said the cannoneer on the castle wall, 

‘But Iron — Cold Iron — shall be master of you all!* 

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong 
When the cruel cannon-balls laid ’em all along! 

He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall, 

And Iron — Cold Iron — was master of it all! 

Yet his King spake kindly (Ah, how kind a Lord!) 
‘What if I release thee now and give thee back thy 
sword ? ’ 

‘Nay!’ said the Baron, ‘mock not at my fall, 

For Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all.’ 

‘ Tears are for the craven , prayers are for the clown — 
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown 9 
r As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small, 

For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!* 

*7 


28 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!) 

‘Here is Bread and here is Wine — sit and sup with 
me. 

Eat and drink in Mary’s name, the whiles I do recall 

How Iron — Cold Iron — can be master of men all!’ 

He took the Wine and blessed It; He blessed and 
brake the Bread 

With His own Hands He served Them, and presently 
He said: 

‘Look! These Hands they pierced with nails out¬ 
side My city wall 

Show Iron — Cold Iron—to be master of men all! 

‘ Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong. 

Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with 
wrong. 

I forgive thy treason — I redeem thy fall — 

For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!* 

‘ Crowns are for the valiant — sceptres for the bold! 

Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take 
and hold . 9 

‘Nay!’ said the Baron, kneeling in his hall, 

k But Iron — Cold Iron—is master of man all!* 



Gloriana 





THE TWO COUSINS 


Ualour and Innocence 

Have latterly gone hence 

To certain death by certain shame attended. 

Envy — ah! even to tears!— 

The fortune of their years 

Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended. 

Scarce had they lifted up 
Life’s full and fiery cup, 

Than they had set it down untouched before them. 
Before their day arose 
They beckoned it to close — 

Close in destruction and confusion o’er them. 

They did not stay to ask 

What prize should crown their task, 

Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for; 
But passed into eclipse 
Her kiss upon their lips — 

Even Belphoebe’s, whom they gave their lives for! 


31 






































































































































GLORIANA 


Willow Shaw, the little fenced wood where the hop- 
poles are stacked like Indian wigwams, had been given 
to Dan and Una for their v try own kingdom when 
they were quite small. As they grew older, they con¬ 
trived to keep it most particularly private. Even 
Phillips, the gardener, told them every time he came 
in to take a hop-pole for his beans; and old Hobden 
would no more have thought of setting his rabbit-wires 
there without leave, given fresh each spring, than he 
would have torn down the calico and marking-ink 
notice on the big willow which said: ‘Grown-ups not 
allowed in the Kingdom unless brought/ 

Now you can understand their indignation when, 
one blowy July afternoon, as they were going up for 
a potato-roast, they saw somebody moving among 
the trees. They hurled themselves over the gate, 
dropping half the potatoes, and while they were 
picking them up Puck came out of a wigwam. 

‘Oh, it’s you, is it ?’ said Una. ‘We thought it was 
people/ 

‘ I saw you were angry — from your legs/ he 
answered with a grin. 

‘ Well, it’s our own Kingdom — not counting you, 
of course/ 


33 


34 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘That’s rather why I came. A lady here wants 
to see you.’ 

‘What about?’ said Dan cautiously. 

‘Oh, just Kingdoms and things. She knows about 
Kingdoms.’ 

There was a lady near the fence dressed in a long 
dark cloak that hid everything except her high red- 
heeled shoes. Her face was half covered by a black 
silk fringed mask, without goggles. And yet she did 
not look in the least as if she motored. 

Puck led them up to her and bowed solemnly. Una 
made the best dancing-lesson curtsy she could remem¬ 
ber. The lady answered with a long, deep, slow, 
billowy one. 

‘Since it seems that you are a Queen of this King¬ 
dom,’ she said, ‘I can do no less than acknowledge 
your sovereignty.’ She turned sharply on staring 
Dan. ‘What’s in your head, lad? Manners?’ 

‘ I was thinking how wonderfully you did that curtsy/ 
he answered. 

She laughed a rather shrill laugh. ‘You’re a courtier 
already. Do you know anything of dances, wench — 
or Queen, must I say?’ 

‘I’ve had some lessons, but I can’t really dance a 
bit,’ said Una. 

‘You should learn then.’ The lady moved forward 
as though she would teach her at once. ‘It gives a 
woman alone among men or her enemies time to think 
how she shall win or —lose. A woman can only work 
in man’s playtime. Heigho!’ She sat down on the bank. 


GLORIANA 


35 

Old Middenboro, the lawn-mower pony, stumped 
across the paddock and hung his sorrowful head over 
the fence. 

‘A pleasant Kingdom/ said the lady, looking round. 
'Well enclosed. And how does your Majesty govern 
it? Who is your Minister?’ 

Una did not quite understand. ‘We don’t play 
that,’ she said. 

‘ Play ?’ The lady threw up her hands and laughed. 

‘We have it for our own, together,’ Dan explained. 

‘And d’you never quarrel, young Burleigh?’ 

‘Sometimes, but then we don’t tell.’ 

The lady nodded. ‘I’ve no brats of my own, but 
I understand keeping a secret between Queens and 
their Ministers. Ay de mi! But with no disrespect 
to present majesty, methinks your realm is small, and 
therefore likely to be coveted by man and beast. For 
example’—she pointed to Middenboro — ‘yonder old 
horse, with the face of a Spanish friar — does he never 
break in ?’ 

‘He can’t. Old Hobden stops all our gaps for us/ 
said Una, ‘and we let Hobden catch rabbits in the 
Shaw.’ 

The lady laughed like a man. ‘I see! Hobden 
catches conies — rabbits — for himself, and guards 
your defences for you. Does he make a profit out of 
his coney-catching ?’ 

‘We never ask/ said Una. ‘Hobden’s a particular 
friend of ours.’ 

‘Hoity-toity!’ the lady began angrily. Then she 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


36 

laughed. ‘But I forget. It is your Kingdom. I 
knew a maid once that had a larger one than this to 
defend, and so long as her men kept the fences stopped, 
she asked ’em no questions either.’ 

‘Was she trying to grow flowers ?’ said Una. 

‘No, trees — perdurable trees. Her flowers all 
withered.’ The lady leaned her head on her hand. 

‘They do if you don’t look after them. We’ve got 
a few. Would you like to see ? I’ll fetch you some.’ 
Una ran off* to the rank grass in the shade behind the 
wigwam, and came back with a handful of pink flowers. 
‘Aren’t they pretty ?’ she said. ‘They’re Virginia stock.’ 

‘Virginia?’ said the lady, and lifted them to the 
fringe of her mask. 

‘Yes. They come from Virginia. Did your maid 
ever plant any?’ 

‘Not herself — but her men adventured all over the 
earth to pluck or to plant flowers for her crown. They 
judged her worthy of them.’ 

‘And was she ?’ said Dan cheerfully. 

‘Quien sabe (who knows?) But at least, while 
her men toiled abroad she toiled in England, that 
they might find a safe home to come back to.’ 

‘And what was she called?’ 

‘Gloriana — Belphcebe — Elizabeth of England.’ 
Her voice changed at each word. 

‘You mean Queen Bess?’ The lady bowed her 
head a little toward Dan. 

‘You name her lightly enough, young Burleigh. 
What might you know of her ?’ said she. 


GLORIANA 


37 

‘Well, I — I’ve seen the little green shoes she left 
at Brickwall House — down the road, you know. 
They’re in a glass case — awfully tiny things/ 

‘Oh, Burleigh, Burleigh!’ she laughed. ‘You are 
a courtier too soon.’ 

‘But they are,’ Dan insisted. ‘As little as dolls’ 
shoes. Did you really know her well?’ 

‘Well. She was a—woman. I’ve been at her 
Court all my life. Yes, I remember when she danced 
after the banquet at Brickwall. They say she danced 
Philip of Spain out of a brand new kingdom that day. 
Worth the price of a pair of old shoes — hey?’ 

She thrust out one foot, and stooped forward to 
look at its broad flashing buckle. 

‘You’ve heard of Philip of Spain — long-suffering 
Philip,’ she said, her eyes still on the shining stones. 
‘Faith, what some men will endure at some women’s 
hands passes belief! If / had been a man, and a 
woman had played with me as Elizabeth played with 

Philip, I would have-’ She nipped off* one of the 

Virginia stocks and held it up between finger and 
thumb. ‘But for all that’—she began to strip the 
leaves one by one — ‘they say — and I am persuad¬ 
ed — that Philip loved her.’ She tossed her head 
sideways. 

‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Una. 

‘The high heavens forbid that you should, wench!* 
She swept the flowers from her lap and stood up in the 
rush of shadows that the wind chased through the 
wood. 


38 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘I should like to know about the shoes/ said 
Dan. 

‘So ye shall, Burleigh. So ye shall, if ye watch 
me. ’Twill be as good as a play.’ 

‘We’ve never been to a play/ said Una. 

The lady looked at her and laughed. ‘I’ll make one 
for you. Watch! You are to imagine that she — 
Gloriana, Belphcebe, Elizabeth — has gone on a 
progress to Rye to comfort her sad heart (maids are 
often melancholic), and while she halts at Brickwall 
House, the village — what was its name ?’ She pushed 
Puck with her foot. 

‘Norgem/ he croaked, and squatted by the wigwam. 

‘Norgem village loyally entertains her with a masque 
or play, and a Latin oration spoken by the parson, for 
whose false quantities, if Fd made ’em in my girl¬ 
hood, I should have been whipped.’ 

‘You whipped ?’ said Dan. 

‘Soundly, sirrah, soundly! She stomachs the affront 
to her scholarship, makes her grateful, gracious thanks 
from the teeth outwards, thus’ — (the lady yawned) 
— ‘Oh, a Queen may love her subjects in her heart, 
and yet be dog-wearied of ’em in body and mind — 
and so sits down’ — her skirts foamed about her as 
she sat — ‘to a banquet beneath Brickwall Oak. 

Here for her sins she is waited upon by- What 

were the young cockerels’ names that served Gloriana 
at table ?’ 

‘Frewens, Courthopes, Fullers, Husseys/ Puck 
began, 



GLORIANA 


39 

She held up her long jewelled hand. ‘Spare the 
rest! They were the best blood of Sussex, and by 
so much the more clumsy in handling the dishes and 
plates. Wherefore’—she looked funnily over her 
shoulder — ‘you are to think of Gloriana in a green 
and gold-laced habit, dreadfully expecting that the 
jostling youths behind her would, of pure jealousy or 
devotion, spatter it with sauces and wines. The gown 
was Philip’s gift, too! At this happy juncture a 
Queen’s messenger, mounted and mired, spurs up the 
Rye road and delivers her a letter’ — she giggled —* 
‘a letter from a good, simple, frantic Spanish gentle¬ 
man called — Don Philip.’ 

‘That wasn’t Philip, King of Spain?’ Dan asked, 

‘Truly, it was. ’Twixt you and me and the bed¬ 
post, young Burleigh, these kings and queens are very 
like men and women, and I’ve heard they write each 
other fond, foolish letters that none of their ministers 
should open.’ 

‘Did her ministers ever open Queen Elizabeth’s 
letters?’ said Una. 

‘Faith, yes! But she’d have done as much for 
theirs, any day. You are to think of Gloriana, then 
(they say she had a pretty hand), excusing herself 
thus to the company — for the Queen’s time is nevef 
her own — and, while the music strikes up, reading 
Philip’s letter, as I do.’ She drew a real letter from 
her pocket, and held it out almost at arm’s length, 
like the old post-mistress in the village when she 
t ^,ads telegrams. 


40 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


( Hm! Hm! Hm! Philip writes as ever most 
lovingly. He says his Gloriana is cold, for which 
reason he burns for her through a fair written page. 1 
She turned it with a snap. ‘What’s here? Philip 
complains that certain of her gentlemen have fought 
against his generals in the Low Countries. He prays 
her to hang ’em when they re-enter her realms. (Hm, 
that’s as may be.) Here’s a list of burnt shipping 
slipped between two vows of burning adoration. Oh, 
poor Philip! His admirals at sea—no less than 
three of ’em — have been boarded, sacked and scuttled 
on their lawful voyages by certain English mariners 
(gentlemen, he will not call them), who are now at 
large and working more piracies in his American ocean, 
which the Pope gave him. (He and the Pope should 
guard it, then!) Philip hears, but his devout ears will 
not credit it, that Gloriana in some fashion counte¬ 
nances these villains’ misdeeds, shares in their booty, 
and — oh, shame! — has even lent them ships royal 
for their sinful thefts. Therefore he requires (which 
is a word Gloriana loves not), requires that she shall 
hang ’em when they return to England, and afterward 
shall account to him for all the goods and gold they 
have plundered. A most loving request! If Gloriana 
will not be Philip’s bride, she shall be his broker and 
his butcher! Should she still be stiff-necked, he writes 
— see where the pen digged the innocent paper! — 
that he hath both the means and the intention to be 
revenged on her. Aha! Now we come to the Spaniard in 
his shirt!’ (She waved the letter merrily.) ‘Listen 


GLORIANA 


4i 

here! Philip will prepare for Gloriana a destruction 
from the West — a destruction from the West — 
far exceeding that which Pedro de Avila wrought upon 
the Huguenots. And he rests and remains, kissing 
her feet and her hands, her slave, her enemy, or her 
conqueror, as he shall find that she uses him/ 

She thrust back the letter under her cloak, and went 
on acting, but in a softer voice. ‘All this while — 
hark to it — the wind blows through Brickwall Oak, 
the music plays, and, with the company’s eyes upon 
her, the Queen of England must think what this 
means. She cannot remember the name of Pedro 
de Avila, nor what he did to the Huguenots, nor when, 
nor where. She can only see darkly some dark motion 
moving in Philip’s dark mind, for he hath never written 
before in this fashion. She must smile above the 
letter as though it were good news from her ministers 
— the smile that tires the mouth and the poor heart. 
What shall she do?’ Again her voice changed. 

‘You are to fancy that the music of a sudden wavers 
away. Chris Hatton, Captain of her bodyguard, 
quits the table all red and ruffled, and Gloriana’s 
virgin ear catches the clash of swords at work behind 
a wall. The mothers of Sussex look round to count 
their chicks — I mean those young game-cocks that 
waited on her. Two dainty youths have stepped 
aside into Brickwall garden with rapier and dagger 
on a private point of honour. They are haled out 
through the gate, disarmed and glaring — the lively 
image of a brace of young Cupids transformed into 


42 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

pale, panting Cains. Ahem! Gloriana beckons 
awfully — thus! They come up for judgment. Their 
lives and estates lie at her mercy whom they have 
doubly offended, both as Queen and woman. But 
la! what will not foolish young men do for a beautiful 
maid ?’ 

‘ Why ? What did she do ? What had they done V 
said Una. 

‘Hsh! You mar the play! Gloriana had guessed 
the cause of the trouble. They were handsome lads. 
So she frowns a while and tells ’em not to be bigger 
fools than their mothers had made ’em, and warns ’em, 
if they do not kiss and be friends on the instant, she’ll 
have Chris Hatton horse and birch ’em in the style 
of the new school at Harrow. (Chris looks sour at 
that.) Lastly, because she needed time to think on 
Philip’s letter burning in her pocket, she signifies her 
pleasure to dance with ’em and teach ’em better 
manners. Whereat the revived company call down 
Heaven’s blessing on her gracious head; Chris and 
the others prepare Brickwall House for a dance, and 
she walks in the clipped garden between those two 
lovely young sinners who are both ready to sink for 
shame. They confess their fault. It appears that 
midway in the banquet the elder — they were cousins 
— conceived that the Queen looked upon him with 
special favour. The younger, taking the look to 
himself, after some words gives the elder the lie; hence, 
as she guessed, the duel.’ 

‘And which had she really looked at?* Dan asked. 


GLORIANA 


43 

'Neither — except to wish them farther off. She 
was afraid all the while they’d spill dishes on her 
gown. She tells ’em this, poor chicks — and it com¬ 
pletes their abasement. When they had grilled long 
enough, she says: "And so you would have fleshed 
your maiden swords for me — for me?” Faith, they 
would have been at it again if she’d egged ’em on! 
but their swords — oh, prettily they said it! — had 
been drawn for her once or twice already. 

‘"And where?” says she. "On your hobby-horses 
before you were breeched ?” 

‘"On my own ship,” says the elder. "My cousin 
was vice-admiral of our venture in his pinnace. We 
would not have you think of us as brawling children.” 

‘"No, no,” says the younger, and flames like a very 
Tudor rose. "At least the Spaniards know us better.” 

“‘Admiral Boy—Vice-Admiral Babe,” says Glori- 
ana, "I cry your pardon. The heat of these present 
times ripens childhood to age more quickly than I 
can follow. But we are at peace with Spain. Where 
aid you break your Queen’s peace?” 

“‘On the sea called the Spanish Main, though ’tis 
no more Spanish than my doublet,” says the elder. 
Guess how that warmed Gloriana’s already melting 
heart! She would never suffer any sea to be called 
Spanish in her private hearing. 

‘"And why was I not told? What booty got you, 
and where have you hid it? Disclose,” says she. 
"You stand in some danger of the gallows for pirates.” 

“‘The axe, most gracious lady,” says the elder, "for 


44 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


we are gentle born.” He spoke truth, but no woman 
can brook contradiction. “ Hoity-toity,” says she, 
and, but that she remembered that she was a Queen, 
she’d have cuffed the pair of ’em. “It shall be gal¬ 
lows, hurdle, and dung-cart if I choose!” 

‘“Had our Queen known of our going beforehand, 
Philip might have held her to blame for some small 
things we did on the seas,” the younger lisps. 

‘“As for treasure,” says the elder, “we brought 
back but our bare lives. We were wrecked on the 
Gascons’ Graveyard, where our sole company for 
three months was the bleached bones of De Avila’s 
men.” 

‘Gloriana’s mind jumped back to Philip’s last 
letter. 

‘“De Avila that destroyed the Huguenots? What 
d’you know of him?” she says. The music called 
from the house here, and thev three turned back 
between the yews. 

“‘Simply that De Avila broke in upon a plantation 
of Frenchmen on that coast, and very Spaniardly 
hung them all for heretics — eight hundred or 'o. 
The next year Dominique de Gorgues, a Gascon, 
broke in upon De Avila’s men, and very justly hung 
’em all for murderers — five hundred or so. No 
Christians inhabit there now,” says the elder lad, 
“though ’tis a goodly land north of Florida.” 

‘“How far is it from England?” asks prudent 
Gloriana. 

‘“With a fair wind, six weeks. They say that 



“Admiral Boy — Vice-Admiral Babe,” says Gloriana, “I cry 
your pardon ” 







GLORIANA 


45 

Philip will plant it again soon.” This was the younger, 
and he looked at her out of the corner of his innocent 
eye. 

‘Chris Hatton, fuming, meets and leads her into 
Brickwall Hall, where she dances — thus. A woman 
can think while she dances — can think. I’ll show 
you. Watch! ’ 

She took off her cloak slowly, and stood forth in 
dove-coloured satin, worked over with pearls that 
trembled like running water in the running shadows 
of the trees. Still talking — more to herself than to 
the children — she swam into a majestical dance of 
the Stateliest balancings, the haughtiest wheelings 
and turnings aside, the most dignified sinkings, the 
gravest risings, all joined together by the elaboratest 
interlacing steps and circles. 

They leaned forward breathlessly to watch the 
splendid acting. 

‘Would a Spaniard,’ she began, looking on the 
ground, ‘speak of his revenge till his revenge were 
ripe? No. Yet a man who loved a woman might 
threaten her in the hope that his threats would make 
her love him. Such things have been.’ She moved 
slowly across a bar of sunlight. ‘A destruction from 
the West may signify that Philip means to descend 
on Ireland. But then my Irish spies would have 
had some warning. The Irish keep no secrets. No 
— it is not Ireland. Now why — why —why —’ the 
red shoes clicked and paused—‘does Philip name 
Pedro Melendez de Avila, a general in his Americas, 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


46 

unless’ — she turned more quickly — ‘ unless he 
intends to work his destruction from the Americas ? 
Did he say De Avila only to put her off her guard, 
or, for this once, has his black pen betrayed his black 
heart ? We’ — she raised herself to her full height 

— ‘England must forestall Master Philip. But not 
openly/ she sank again—‘we cannot fight Spain 
openly — not yet — not yet.’ She stepped three paces 
as though she were pegging down some snare with her 
twinkling shoe-buckles. ‘The Queen’s mad gentle¬ 
men may fight Philip’s poor admirals where they find 
’em, but England, Gloriana, Harry’s daughter, must 
keep the peace. Perhaps, after all, Philip loves her 

— as many men and boys do. That may help Eng¬ 
land. Oh, what shall help England ? ’ 

She raised her head — the masked head that seemed 
to have nothing to do with the busy feet — and stared 
straight at the children. 

‘I think this is rather creepy,’ said Una with a 
shiver. ‘I wish she’d stop.’ 

The lady held out her jewelled hand as though she 
were taking some one else’s hand in the Grand Chain. 

‘Can a ship go down to the Gascons’ Graveyard 
and wait there ?’ she asked into the air, and passed 
on rustling. 

‘She’s pretending to ask one of the cousins, isn’t 
she ?’ said Dan, and Puck nodded. 

Back she came in the silent, swaying, ghostly dance. 
They saw she was smiling beneath the mask, and they 
could hear her breathing hard. 


GLORIANA 


47 

‘I cannot lend you any my ships for the venture; 
Philip would hear of it/ she whispered over her shoul¬ 
der; ‘but as much guns and powder as you ask, if you 

do not ask too-’ her voice shot up and she stamped 

her foot thrice. ‘Louder! Louder, the music in the 
gallery! Oh, me, but I have burst out of my shoe!’ 

She gathered her skirts in each hand, and began 
a curtsy. ‘You will go at your own charges/ she 
whispered straight before her. ‘Oh, enviable and 
adorable age of youth!’ Her eyes shone through the 
mask-holes. ‘But I warn you you’ll repent it. Put 
not your trust in princes — or Queens. Philip’s 
ships’ll blow you out of water. You’ll not be 
frightened ? Well, we’ll talk on it again, when I return 
from Rye, dear lads.’ 

The wonderful curtsy ended. She stood up. Noth¬ 
ing stirred on her except the rush of the shadows. 

‘And so it was finished/ she said to the children. 
‘Why d’you not applaud?’ 

‘What was finished?’ said Una. 

‘The dance/ the lady replied offendedly. ‘And a 
pair of green shoes.’ 

‘I don’t understand a bit/ said Una. 

‘Eh ? What did you make of it, young Burleigh ?’ 

‘I’m not quite sure/ Dan began, ‘but-—’ 

‘You never can be —with a woman. But?-* 

‘But I thought Gloriana meant the cousins to go 
back to the Gascons’ Graveyard, wherever that was.’ 

‘’Twas Virginia afterward. Her plantation of 
Virginia/ 


48 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Virginia afterward, and stop Philip from taking 
it. Didn’t she say she’d lend ’em guns?’ 

‘Right so. But not ships— then' 

‘And I thought you meant they must have told her 
they’d do it off their own bat, without getting her 
into a row with Philip. Was I right?’ 

‘Near enough for a Minister of the Queen. But 
remember she gave the lads full time to change their 
minds. She was three long days at Rye Royal — 
knighting of fat Mayors. When she cam« back to 
Brickwall, they met her a mile down the ^oad, and 
she could feel their eyes burn through her riding-mask. 
Chris Hatton, poor fool, was vexed at it. 

‘“You would not birch them when I gave you the 
rhance,” says she to Chris. “Now you must get me 
half an hour’s private speech with ’em in Brickwall 
garden. Eve tempted Adam in a garden. Quick, 
man, or I may repent!”’ 

‘She was a Queen. Why did she not send for them 
herself?’ said Una. 

The lady shook her head. ‘That was never her 
way. I’ve seen her walk to her own mirror by bye- 
ends, and the woman that cannot walk straight there 
is past praying for. Yet I would have you pray for 
her! What else —what else in England’s name could 
she have done?’ She lifted her hand to her throat 
for a moment. ‘Faith,’ she cried, ‘I’d forgotten the 
little green shoes! She left ’em at Brickwall—so 
she did. And I remember she gave the Norgem 
parson — John Withers, was he ? — a text for his 


GLORIANA 


4<> 

sermon—“Over Edom have I cast out my shoe/’ 
Neat, if he’d understood!’ 

‘I don’t understand,’ said Una. ‘What about the 
two cousins ? ’ 

‘You are as cruel as a woman,’ the lady answered. 
*7 was not to blame. I told you I gave ’em time to 
change their minds. On my honour («ay de mi !), she 
asked no mere of ’em at first than to wait a while off 
that coast — the Gascons’ Graveyard — to hover a 
little if their ships chanced to pass that way — they 
had only one tall ship and a pinnace — only to watch 
and bring me word of Philip’s doings. One must 
watch Philip always. What a murrain right had he 
to make any plantation there, a hundred leagues north 
of his Spanish Main, and only six weeks from England ? 
By my dread father’s soul, I tell you he had none — 
none!’ She stamped her red foot again, and the two 
children shrunk back for a second. 

‘Nay, nay. You must not turn from me too! She 
laid it all fairly before the lads in Brickwall garden 
between the yews. I told ’em that if Philip sent a 
fleet (and to make a plantation he could not well send 
less), their poor little cock-boats could not sink it. 
They answered that, with submission, the fight would 
be their own concern. She showed ’em again that 
there could be only one end to it — quick death on the 
sea, or slow death in Philip’s prisons. They asked 
no more than to embrace death for my sake. Many 
men have prayed to me for life. I’ve refused ’em, 
and slept none the worse after; but when my men. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


5° 

my tall, fantastical young men beseech me on their 
knees for leave to die for me, it shakes me — ah, it 
shakes me to the marrow of my old bones/ 

Her chest sounded like a board as she hit it. 

‘She showed ’em all. I told ’em that this was no 
time for open war with Spain. If by miracle incon¬ 
ceivable they prevailed against Philip’s fleet, Philip 
would hold me accountable. For England’s sake, to 
save war, I should e’en be forced (I told ’em so) to 
give him up their young heads. If they failed, and 
again by some miracle escaped Philip’s hand, and 
crept back to England with their bare lives, they must 
lie—oh, I told ’em all! — under my sovereign dis¬ 
pleasure. She could not know them, see them, nor 
hear their names, nor stretch out a finger to save them 
from the gallows, if Philip chose to ask it. 

‘“Be it the gallow^, then,” says the elder. (I could 
have wept but that my face was made for the day.) 

“‘Either way — any way — this venture is death, 
which I know you fear not. But it is death with 
assured dishonour,” I cried. 

“‘Yet our Queen will know in her heart what we 
have done,” says the younger. 

‘“Sweetheart,” I said. “A Queen has no heart.” 

“‘But she is a woman, and a woman would not 
forget,” says the elder. “We will go!” They knelt 
at my feet. 

‘“Nay, dear lads — but here!” I said, and I 
opened my arms to them and I kissed them. 

‘“Be ruled by me,” I said. “We’ll hire some ill- 


GLORIANA 


5i 

featured old tarry-breeks of an admiral to watch the 
Graveyard, and you shall come to Court.” 

‘“Hire whom you please,” says the elder. “We 
are ruled by you, body and soul ”; and the younger, who 
shook most when I kissed ’em, says between his white 
lips, “ I think you have power to make a god of a man.” 

‘“Come to Court and be sure of it,” I says. 

‘They shook their heads and I knew — I knew, 
that go they would. If I had not kissed them — per¬ 
haps I might have prevailed.’ 

‘Then why did you do it?’ said Una. ‘I don’s 
think you knew really what you wanted done.’ 

‘May it please your Majesty,’ the lady bowed her 
head low, ‘this Gloriana whom I have represented 
for your pleasure was a woman and a Queen. Remem¬ 
ber her when you come to your kingdom.’ 

‘But did the cousins go to the Gascons’ Graveyard ?’ 
said Dan, as Una frowned. 

‘They went/ said the lady. 

‘Did they ever come back?’ Una began, but — 
J Did they stop King Philip’s fleet!’ Dan interrupted. 

The lady turned to him eagerly. 

‘D’you think they did right to go ?’ she asked. 

‘I don’t see what else they could have done,’ Dan 
replied, after thinking it over. 

‘D’you think she did right to send ’em?’ The 
lady’s voice rose a little. 

‘Well,’ said Dan, ‘I don’t see what else she could 
have done, either — do you? How did they nop 
King Philip from getting Virginia?’ 


52 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘There’s the sad part of it. They sailed out that 
autumn from Rye Royal, and there never came back 
so much as a single rope-yarn to show what had befallen 
them. The winds blew, and they were not. Does 
that make you alter your mind, young Burleigh ?’ 

‘ I expect they were drowned, then. Anyhow, Philip 
didn’t score, did he?’ 

‘Gloriana wiped out her score with Philip later 
But if Philip had won, would you have blamed Glori¬ 
ana for wasting those lads’ lives?’ 

‘Of course not. She was bound to try to stop him/ 

The lady coughed. ‘You have the root of the 
matter in you. Were I Queen, I’d make you Minister.’ 

‘We don’t play that game,’ said Una, who felt that 
she disliked the lady as much as she disliked the noise 
the high wind made tearing through Willow Shaw. 

‘Play!’ said the lady with a laugh, and threw up 
her hands affectedly. The sunshine caught the jewels 
on her many rings and made them flash till Una’s 
eyes dazzled, and she had to rub them. Then she 
saw Dan on his knees picking up the potatoes they 
had spilled at the gate. 

‘There wasn’t anybody in the Shaw, after all,’ he 
said. ‘Didn’t you think you saw some one?’ 

‘I’m most awfully glad there isn’t,’ said Una. Then 
they went on with the potato-roast. 


THE LOOKING-GLASS 


Queen Bess was Harry s daughter! 

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling 
old, 

Her petticoat was satin and her stomacher was gold. 

Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass, 

Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass. 
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass 
As comely or as kindly or as young as once she was! 

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair. 

There came Queen Mary’s spirit and it stood behind 
her chair, 

Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may 
you pass, 

But I will stand behind you till you face the looking- 
glass. 

The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass 
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!’ 

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore. 

There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and it scratched 
upon the door. 

Singing, ‘Backwards and forwards and sideways may 
you pass 


54 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

But I will walk beside you till you face the looking- 
glass. 

The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass, 

As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!* 

The Queen was in her chamber; her sins were on her 
head; 

She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she 
said:— 

‘Backwards and forwards and sideways though I’ve 
been, 

Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!’ 

And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else 
there was) 

And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty 
pass 

In the cruel looking-glass that can always hurt a lass 

More hard than any ghost there is or any man there 
was! 




The Wrong Thing 




A TRUTHFUL SONG 


L 

The Bricklayer:— 

I tell this tale , which is strictly true , 

Just by way of convincing you 
How very little , since things were made , 

Things have altered in the building trade . 

A year ago, come the middle o’ March, 

We was building flats near the Marble Arch 
When a thin young man with coal-black hair 
Came up to watch us working there. 

Now there wasn’t a trick in brick or stone 
That this young man hadn’t seen or known; 
Nor there wasn’t a tool from trowel to maul 
But this young man could use ’em all! 

Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold, 

Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold 
‘Since you with us have made so free, 

Will you kindly say what your name might be V 

The young man kindly answered them: 

‘It might be Lot or Methusalem, 

Or it might be Moses (a man I hate) 

Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great. 

‘Your glazing is new and your plumbing’s strange. 
But otherwise I perceive no change, 

And in less than a month if you do as I bid 
I’d learn you to build me a Pyramid V 

57 


58 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


II. 

The Sailor:— 

I tell this tale , which is stricter true , 

Just by way of convincing you 
How very little , since things was made , 

Things have altered in the shipwright 9 s trade . 

In Blackwall Basin yesterday 
A China barque re-fitting lay; 

When a fat old man with snow-white hair 
Came up to watch us working there. 

Now there wasn’t a knot which the riggers knew 
But the old man made it — and better too; 

Nor there wasn’t a sheet, or a lift, or a brace, 

But the old man knew its lead and place. 

Then up and spake the caulkyers bold, 

Which was packing the pump in the after-hold: 
‘Since you with us have made so free, 

Will you kindly tell what your name might be ?* 

The old man kindly answered them: 

‘It might be Japhet, it might be Shem, 

Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark) 
Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark. 

‘Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange. 
But otherwise I perceive no change, 

And in less than a week, if she did not ground, 

I’d sail this hooker the wide world round!’ 

Both: We tell these tales , which are strictest true y etc * 



THE WRONG THING 


Dan had gone in for building model boats; but after 
he had filled the schoolroom with chips which he 
expected Una to clear away, they turned him out of 
doors and he took all his tools up the hill to Mr. Spring¬ 
ett s yard, where he knew he could make as much mess 
as he chose. Old Mr. Springett was a builder, con¬ 
tractor, and sanitary engineer, and his yard, which 
opened off the village street, was always full of inter¬ 
esting things. At one end of it was a long loft, reached 
by a ladder, where he kept his iron-bound scaffold 
planks, tins of paints, pulleys, and odds and ends he 
had found in old houses. He would sit here by the 
hour watching his carts as they loaded or unloaded in 
the yard below, while Dan gouged and grunted at the 
carpenter’s bench near the loft window. Mr. Springett 
and Dan had always been particular friends, for Mr. 
Springett was so old he could remember when rail¬ 
ways vere being made in the southern counties of 
England, and people were allowed to drive dogs in 
carts. 

One hot, still afternoon — the tar-paper on the 
roof smelt like ships — Dan, in his shirt sleeves, was 
smoothing down a new schooner’s bow, and Mr. 
Springett was talking of barns and houses he had built. 

59 


6o 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


He said he never forgot any stick or stone he had ever 
handled, or any man, woman, or child he had ever met. 
Just then he was very proud of the village Hall at the 
entrance to the village which he had finished a few 
weeks before. 

‘An’ I don’t mind tellin’ you, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, 
‘that the Hall will be my last job top of this mortal 
earth. I didn’t make ten pounds — no, nor yet five 

— out o’ the whole contrac’, but my name’s lettered 
on the foundation-stone —Ralph Springett , Builder 

— and the stone she’s bedded on four foot good con¬ 
crete. If she shifts any time these five hundred years, 
I’ll sure-ly turn in my grave. I told the Lunnon 
architec’ so when he come down to oversee my work.’ 

‘What did he say?’ Dan was sandpapering the 
schooner’s port bow. 

‘Nothing. The Hall ain’t more than one of his 
small jobs for him , but ’tain’t small to me, an’ my 
name is cut and lettered, frontin’ the village street, 
I do hope an’ pray, for time everlastin’. You’ll want 
the little round file for that holler in her bow. Who’s 
here?’ Mr. Springett turned stiffly in his chair. 

A long pile of scaffold-planks ran down the centre 
of the loft. Dan looked, and saw Hal of the Draft’s 
touzled head beyond them . 1 

‘ Be you the builder of the village Hall ? he asked 
of Mr. Springett. 

‘ I be,’ was the answer. ‘ But if you want a job-—’ 

Hal laughed. ‘No, faith! he said. ‘Only the 


1 See ‘Hal o’ the Draft’ in Puck of Pook's Hill. 



THE WRONG THING 61 

Hall is as good and honest a piece of work as I’ve 
ever run a rule over. So, being born hereabouts, and 
being reckoned a master among masons, and accepted 
as a Master Mason, I made bold to pay my brotherly 
respects to the builder/ 

‘Aa — urn!’ Mr. Springett looked important. ‘I 
be a bit rusty, but I’ll try ye!’ 

He asked Hal several curious questions, and the 
answers must have pleased him, for he invited Hal to 
sit down. Hal moved up, always keeping behind 
the pile of planks so that only his head showed, and 
sat down on a trestle in the dark corner at the back of 
Mr. Springett’s desk. He took no notice of Dan, 
but talked at once to Mr. Springett about bricks, and 
cement, and lead and glass, and after a while Dan 
went on with his work. He knew Mr. Springett was 
pleased because he tugged his white sandy beard, 
and smoked his pipe in short puffs. The two men 
seemed to agree about everything, but when grown-ups 
agree they interrupt each other almost as much as if they 
were quarrelling. Hal said something about workmen. 

‘Why, that’s what I always say,’ Mr. Springett cried. 
"A man who can only do one thing, he’s but next- 
above-fool to the man that can’t do nothing. That’s 
where the Unions make their mistake/ 

‘My thought to the very dot.’ Dan heard Hal slap 
his tight-hosed leg. ‘I’ve suffered in my time from 
these same Guilds—Unions d’you call ’em? All 
their precious talk of the mysteries of their trades — 
why, what does it come to?’ —- 


62 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Nothin’ ! You’ve just about hit it,’ said Mr. 
Springett, and rammed his hot tobacco with his thumb. 

‘Take the art of wood-carving,’ Hal went on. He 
reached across the planks, grabbed a wooden mallet, 
and moved his other hand as though he wanted some¬ 
thing. Mr. Springett without a word passed him one 
of Dan’s broad chisels. ‘Ah! Wood-carving, for 
example. If you can cut wood and have a fair draft 
of what ye mean to do, a Heaven’s name take chisel 
and maul and let drive at it, say I! You’ll soon find 
all the mystery, forsooth, of wood-carving under your 
proper hand!’ Whack, came the mallet on the chisel, 
and a sliver of wood curled up in front of it. Mr. 
Springett watched like an old raven. 

‘All art is one, man—one!’ said Hal between 
whacks; ‘and to wait on another man to finish out-’ 

‘To finish out your work ain’t no sense,’ Mr. Springett 
cut in. ‘That’s what I’m always saying to the boy 
here.’ He nodded toward Dan. ‘That’s what I 
said when I put the new wheel into Brewster’s Mill 
in Eighteen hundred Seventy-two. I reckoned I was 
millwright enough for the job ’thout bringin’ a man 
from Lunnon. An’ besides, dividin’ work eats up 
profits, no bounds.’ 

Hal laughed his beautiful deep laugh, and Mr. 
Springett joined in till Dan laughed too. 

‘You handle your tools, I can see,’ said Mr. Springett. 
‘I reckon if you’re any way like me, you’ve found 
yourself hindered by those — Guilds, did you call 
’em l —Unions, we say.’ 


THE WRONG THING 63 

‘You may say so!’ Hal pointed to a white scar on 
his cheek-bone. ‘This is a remembrance from the 
master-watching Foreman of Masons on Magdalen 
Tower, because, please you, I dared to carve stone 
without their leave. They said a stone had slipped 
from the cornice by accident/ 

‘I know them accidents. There’s no way to dis¬ 
prove ’em. An’ stones ain’t the only things that slip/ 
Mr. Springett grunted. Hal went on: 

‘I’ve seen a scaffold-plank keckle and shoot a too- 
clever workman thirty foot on to the cold chancel floor 
below. And a rope can break-’ 

‘Yes, natural as nature; an’ lime’ll fly up in a man’s 
eyes without any breath o’ wind sometimes,’ said Mr. 
Springett. ‘ But who’s to show ’twasn’t a accident ?’ 

‘Who do these things?’ Dan asked, and straight¬ 
ened his back at the bench as he turned the schooner 
end-for-end in the vice to get at her counter. 

‘Them which don’t wish other men to work no better 
nor quicker than they do,’ growled Mr. Springett. 
‘Don’t pinch her so hard in the vice, Mus’ Dan. Put 
a piece o’ rag in the jaws, or you’ll bruise her. More 
than that’—he turned toward Hal—‘if a man has 
his private spite laid up against you, the Unions give 
him his excuse for working it off.’ 

‘Well I know it,’ said Hal. 

‘They never let you go, them spiteful ones. I 
knowed a plasterer in Eighteen hundred Sixty-one — 
down to the Wells. He was a Frenchy — a bad enemy 
he was.’ 


64 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘I had mine too. He was an Italian, called Bene* 
detto. I met him first at Oxford on Magdalen Tower 
when I was learning my trade — or trades, I should 
say. A bad enemy he was, as you say, but he came to 
be my singular good friend/ said Hal as he put down 
the mallet and settled himself comfortably. 

‘What might his trade have been — plasterin’ ?’ Mr. 
Springett asked. 

‘ Plastering of a sort. He worked in stucco — fresco 
we call it. Made pictures on plaster. Not but what 
he had a fine sweep of the hand in drawing. He’d 
take the long sides of a cloister, trowel on his stuff, and 
roll out his great all-abroad pictures of saints and 
croppy-topped trees quick as a webster unrolling cloth 
almost. Oh, Benedetto could draw, but a was a little- 
minded man, professing to be full of secrets of colour 
or plaster — common tricks, all of ’em — and his one 
single talk was how Tom, Dick or Harry had stole 
this or t’other secret art from him.’ 

‘I know that sort,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘There’s 
no keeping peace or making peace with such. An’ 
they’re mostly born an’ bone idle.’ 

‘True. Even his fellow-countrymen laughed at 
his jealousy. We two came to loggerheads early on 
Magdalen Tower. I was a youngster then. Maybe 
I spoke my mind about his work.’ 

‘You shouldn’t never do that.’ Mr. Springett 
shook his head. ‘That sort lay it up against you.’ 

‘True enough. This Benedetto did most specially. 
Body o’ me, the man lived to hate me! But I always 


THE WRONG THING 65 

kept my eyes open on a plank or a scaffold. I was 
mighty glad to be shut of him when he quarrelled with 
his Guild foreman, and went off, nose in air, and 
paints under his arm. But’ — Hal leaned forward 
— ‘if you hate a man or a man hates you-’ 

‘/ know. You’re everlastin’ running acrost him,* 
Mr. Springett interrupted. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ He 
leaned out of the window, and shouted to a carter who 
was loading a cart with bricks. 

‘Ain’t you no more sense than to heap ’em up that 
way?’ he said. ‘Take an’ throw a hundred of ’em 
off. It’s more than the team can compass. Throw 
’em off, I tell you, and make another trip for what’s 
ieft over. Excuse me, sir. You was saying-’ 

‘I was saying that before the end of the year I went 
to Bury to strengthen the lead-work in the great Abbey 
east window there.’ 

‘Now that’s just one of the things I’ve never done. 
But I mind there was a cheap excursion to Chichester 
in Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an’ I went an’ 
watched ’em leading a won’erful fine window in Chi¬ 
chester Cathedral. I stayed watchin’ till ’twas time 
for us to go back. Dunno as I had two drinks p’raps, 
all that day.’ 

Hal smiled. ‘At Bury then, sure enough, I 
met my enemy Benedetto. He had painted a 
picture in plaster on the south wall of the 
Refectory — a noble place for a noble thing — a 
picture of Jonah.’ 

‘Ah! Jonah an’ his whale. I’ve never been as 


66 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


fur as Bury. You’ve worked about a lot/ said Mr, 
Springett, with his eyes on the carter below. 

‘No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah 
and the pompion that withered. But all that Benedetto 
had shown was a peevish greybeard huggled up in 
angle-edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden 
trellis. This last, being a dead thing, he’d drawn it 
as ’twere to the life. But fierce old Jonah, bared in 
the sun, angry even to death that his cold prophecy 
was disproven — Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing 
the children of Nineveh running to mock him — ah, 
that was what Benedetto had not drawn!’ 

‘He better ha’ stuck to his whale, then,’ said Mr. 
Springett. 

‘He’d ha’ done no better with that. He draws the 
damp cloth off the picture, an’ shows it to me. I was 
a craftsman too, d’ye see ? 

‘“’Tis good,” I said, “but it goes no deeper than the 
plaster.” 

‘“What?” he said in a whisper. 

“‘Be thy own judge, Benedetto,” I answered. 
“Does it go deeper than the plaster?” 

‘He reeled against a piece of dry wall. “No,” he 
says, “and I know it. I could not hate thee more than 
I have done these five years, but if I live, I will tr y y 
Hal. 1 will try.” Then he goes away. I pitied him, 
but I had spoken truth. His picture went no deeper 
than the plaster.’ 

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Springett, who had turned quite red. 
‘You was talkin’ so fast I didn’t understand what you 


THE WRONG THING 67 

was drivin’ at. I’ve seen men — good workmen they 
was — try to do more than they could do and — and 
they couldn’t compass it. They knowed it, and it 
nigh broke their hearts like. You was in your right, 
o’ course, sir, to say what you thought o’ his work; 
but, if you’ll excuse me, was you in your duty ?’ 

‘I was wrong to say it,’ Hal replied. "God forgive 
me — I was young! He was workman enough himself 
to know where he failed. But it all came evens in the 
long run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o’ 
one Torrigiano — Torrisany we called him ?’ 

‘I can’t say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like ?’ 

‘No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian 
builder, as vain as a peacock, and as strong as a bull, 
but, mark you, a master workman. More than that 
•— he could get his best work out of the worst men.’ 

‘Which it’s a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like 
him once,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘He used to prod ’em 
in the back like with a pointing-trowel, and they did 
wonders.’ 

‘I’ve seen our Torrisany lay a ’prentice down with 
one buffet and raise him with another — to make a 
mason of him. I worked under him at building a 
chapel in London — a chapel and a tomb for the king.’ 

‘I never knew kings went to chapel much,’ said Mr. 
Springett. ‘But I always hold with a man, don’t care 
who he be, seein’ about his own grave before he dies. 
Tidn’t the sort of thing to leave to your family after 
the will’s read. I reckon ’twas a fine vault.’ 

‘None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the 


68 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


contract for it, as you'd say. He picked master crafts¬ 
men from all parts — England, France, Italy, the Low 
Countries — no odds to him so long as they knew their 
work, and he drove them like — like pigs at Brightling 
Fair. He called us English all pigs. We suffered it 
because he was a master in his craft. If he misliked 
any work that a man had done, with his own great 
hands he'd rive it out, and tear it down before us all. 
“Ah, you pig — you English pig!” he’d scream in the 
dumb wretch's face. “You answer me? You look 
at me? You think at me? Come out with me into 
the cloisters. I will teach you carving myself. I will 
gild you all over!" But when his passion had blown 
out, he'd slip his arm round the man's neck, and impart 
knowledge worth gold. 'Twould have done your 
heart good, Mus' Springett, to see the two hundred of 
us — masons, jewellers, carvers, gilders, iron-workers 
and the rest — all toiling like cock-angels, and this 
mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to next up and 
down the chapel. 'Done your heart good, it would !’ 

‘I believe you,' said Mr. Springett. ‘In Eighteen 
hundred Fifty-four, I mind, the railway was bein' 
made into Hastin's. There was two thousand navvies 
on it — all young — all strong — an’ I was one of ’em. 
Oh, dearie me! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy 
workin’ with you?’ 

‘Benedetto? Be sure he was. He followed me 
like a lover. He painted pictures on the chapel ceiling 
— slung from a chair. Torrigiano made us promise 
not to fight till the work should be finished. We were 


THE WRONG THING 69 

fcoth master craftsmen, do ye see, and he needed us. 
None the less, I never went aloft to carve ’thout testing 
all my ropes and knots each morning. We were never 
far from each other. Benedetto ’ud sharpen his knife 
on his sole while he waited for his plaster to dry — 
wheety wheety wheet. I’d hear it where I hung chipping 
round a pillar-head, and we’d nod to each other friendly¬ 
like. Oh, he was a craftsman, was Benedetto, but 
his hate spoiled his eye and his hand. I mind the 
night I had finished the models for the bronze saints 
round the tomb, Torrigiano embraced me before all 
the chapel, and bade me to supper. I met Benedetto 
when I came out. He was slavering in the porch like 
a mad dog.’ 

‘Working himself up to it?’ said Mr. Springett. 
‘Did he have it in at ye that night ?’ 

‘No, no. That time he kept his oath to Torrigiano. 
But I pitied him. Eh, well! Now I come to my own 
follies. I had never thought too little of myself; but 
after Torrisany had put his arm round my neck, I — 
r — Hal broke into a laugh — ‘I lay there was not 
much odds ’twixt me and a cock-sparrow in his pride.’ 

‘I was pretty middlin’ young once on a time,’ said 
Mr. Springett. 

‘Then ye know that a man can’t drink and dice 
and dress fine, and keep company above his station, 
but his work suffers for it, Mus’ Springett.’ 

‘I never held much with dressin’ up, but — you’re 
right! The worst mistakes I ever made they was 
made on a Monday morning,’ Mr. Springett answered 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


70 

‘We’ve all been one sort of fool or t’other. Mils’ Dan, 
Mus’ Dan, take the smallest gouge, or you’ll be spluttin’ 
her stern works clean out. Can’t ye see the grain of 
:he wood don’t favour a chisel?’ 

‘I’ll spare you some of my follies. But there was 
a man called Brygandyne — Bob Brygandyne — 
Clerk of the King’s Ships, a little, smooth, bustling 
atomy, as clever as a woman to get work done for 
nothin’ — a won’erful smooth-tongued pleader. He 
made much o’ me, and asked me to draft him out a 
drawing, a piece of carved and gilt scroll-work for the 
bows of one of the King’s ships — the Sovereign was 
her name.’ 

‘Was she a man of war ?’ asked Dan. 

‘She was a warship, and a woman called Catherine 
of Castile desired the King to give her the ship for a 
pleasure-ship of her own. I did not know at the time, 
but she’d been at Bob to get this scroll-work done and 
fitted that the King might see it. I made him the 
picture, in an hour, all of a heat after supper — one 
great heaving play of dolphins and a Neptune or so 
reining in webby-footed sea-horses, and Arion with 
his harp high atop of them. It was twenty-three foot 
long, and maybe nine foot deep — painted and gilt.’ 

‘It must ha’ just about looked fine,” said Mr. 
Springett. 

‘That’s the curiosity of it. ’Twas bad —rank bad. 
In my conceit I must needs show it to Torrigiano, in 
the chapel. He straddles his legs; hunches his knife 
behind him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a 


THE WRONG THING 71 

sleet-shower. Benedetto was behind him. We were 
never far apart, I’ve told you. 

“'That is pig’s work,” says our Master. "Swine’s 
work! You make any more such things, even after 
your fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent away.” 

'Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. "Is it so bad 
then. Master?” he says. "What a pity !” 

'"Yes,” says Torrigiano. "Scarcely you could do 
things so bad. I will condescend to show.” 

'He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no 
swearing (it was too bad for that); but good, memor¬ 
able counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets me to 
draft out a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the 
taste of my naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron’s 
sweet stuff if you don’t torture her, and hammered 
work is all pure, truthful line, with a reason and a 
support for every curve and bar of it. A week at that 
settled my stomach handsomely, and the Master let 
me put the work through the smithy, where I sweated 
out more of my foolish pride.’ 

'Good stuff is good iron,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘1 
done a pair of lodge gates once in Eighteen hundred 
Sixty-three.’ 

'Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped 
away my draft of the ship’s scroll-work, and would 
not give it back to me to re-draw. He said ’twould do 
well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me 
too busied to remember him. Body o’ me, but I 
worked that winter upon the gates and the bronzes 
f or "he tomb as I’d neve- worked before! I was leaner 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


72 

than a lath, but I lived— I lived then!’ Hal looked 
at Mr. Springett with his wise, crinkled-up eyes, and 
the old man smiled back. 

‘ Ouch!’ Dan cried. He had been hollowing out 
the schooner’s after-deck, the little gouge had slipped 
and gashed the ball of his left thumb, — an ugly, 
triangular tear. 

‘That came of not steadying your wrist/ said Hal 
calmly. ‘Don’t bleed over the wood. Do your work 
with your heart’s blood, but no need to let it show/ He 
rose and peered into a corner of the loft. 

Mr. Springett had risen too, and swept down a ball 
of cobwebs from a rafter. 

‘Clap that on,’ was all he said, ‘and put your hand¬ 
kerchief atop. ’Twill cake over in a minute. It 
don’t hurt now, do it?’ 

‘No/ said Dan indignantly. ‘You know it has 
happened lots of times. I’ll tie it up myself. Go on, sir/ 

‘And it’ll happen hundreds of times more/ said Hal 
with a friendly nod as he sat down again. But he 
did not go on till Dan’s hand was tied up properly. 
Then he said: 

‘One dark December day—too dark to judge 
colours —we was all sitting and talking round the fires 
in the chapel (you heard good talk there), when Bob 
Brygandyne bustles in and—“Hal, you’re sent for,” 
he squeals. I was at Torrigiano’s feet on a pile of 
put-locks, as I might be here, toasting a herring on 
my knife’s point. ’Twas the one English thing out 
Master liked — salt herring. 


THE WRONG THING 


73 


<u Fm busy, about my art,” I calls. 

‘“Art?” says Bob. “What’s Art compared to 
/our scroll-work for the Sovereign ? Come.” 

‘“Be sure your sins will find you out,” says Torri- 
giano. “Go with him and see.” As I followed Bob 
out I was aware of Benedetto, like a black spot when 
the eyes are tired, sliddering up behind me. 

‘Bob hurries through the streets in the raw fog, 
slips into a doorway, up stairs, along passages, and 
at last thrusts me into a little cold room vilely hung 
with Flemish tapestries, and no furnishing except a 
table and my draft of the Sovereign s scroll-work. 
Here he leaves me. Presently comes in a dark, long- 
nosed man in a fur cap. 

‘“Master Harry Dawe?” said he. 

‘“The same,” I says. “Where a plague has Bob 
Brygandyne gone?” 

‘ His thin eyebrows surged up a piece and come down 
again in a stiff bar. “He went to the King,” he says. 

‘“All one. What’s your pleasure with me?” I 
says shivering, for it was mortal cold. 

‘ He lays his hand flat on my draft. “ Master Dawe,” 
he says, “do you know the present price of gold leaf 
for all this wicked gilding of yours?” 

‘ By that I guessed he was some cheese-paring clerk 
or other of the King’s Ships, so I gave him the price. 
I forget it now, but it worked out to thirty pounds —• 
carved, gilt, and fitted in place. 

‘“Thirty pounds !” he said, as though I had pulled 
a tooth of him. “You talk as though thirty pound? 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


74 

was to be had for the asking. None the less,” he says, 
“your draft’s a fine piece of work.” 

‘I’d been looking at it ever since I came in, and ’twas 
viler even than I judged it at first. My eye and hand 
had been purified in the past months, d’you see, by 
my iron work. 

‘“I could do it better now,” I said. The more I 
studied my squabby Neptunes the less I liked ’em; 
and Arion was a pure flaming shame atop of the unbal¬ 
anced dolphins. 

‘“I doubt it will be fresh expense to draft it again,” 
he says. 

‘“Bob never paid me for the first draft. I lay he’ll 
never pay me for the second. ’Twill cost the King 
nothing if I re-draw it,” I says. 

“‘There’s a woman wishes it to be done quickly,” 
he says. “We’ll stick to your first drawing, Mus’ 
Dawe. But thirty pounds is thirty pounds. You 
must make it less.” 

‘And all the while the faults in my draft fair leaped 
out and hit me between the eyes. At any cost, I thinks 
to myself, I must get it back and re-draft it. He grunts 
at me impatiently, and a splendid thought comes to me, 
which shall save me. By the same token, ’twas quite 
honest.’ 

‘They ain’t always,’ said Mr. Springett. ‘How 
did you get out of it ?’ 

‘By the truth. I says to Master Fur Cap, as I 
might to you here, I says, “I’ll tell you something, 
since you seem a knowledgeable man. Is the Sovereign 


THE WRONG THING 


75 

to lie in Thames river all her days, or will she take the 
high seas?” 

‘“Oh,” he says quickly, “the King keeps no cats 
that don’t catch mice. She must sail the seas, Master 
Dawe. She’ll be hired to merchants for the trade. 
She’ll be out in all shapes o’ weathers. Does that 
make any odds ?” 

‘“Why, then,” says I, “the first heavy sea she sticks 
her nose into ’ll claw off half that scroll-work, and 
the next will finish it. If she’s meant for a pleasure- 
ship give me my draft again, and I’ll porture you a 
pretty, light piece of scroll-work, good, cheap. If 
she’s meant for the open sea, pitch the draft into the 
fire. She can never carry that weight on her bows.” 

‘ He looks at me squintlings and plucks his under-lip. 

‘“Is this your honest, unswayed opinion?” he says. 

‘“Body o’ me! Ask about!” I says. “Any sea¬ 
man could tell you ’tis true. I’m advising you against 
my own profit, but why I do so is my own concern.” 

“‘Not altogether,” he says. “It’s some of mine. 
You’ve saved me thirty pounds, Master Dawe, and 
you’ve given me good arguments to use against a wilful 
woman that wants my fine new ship for her own toy. 
We’ll not have any scroll-work.” His face shined 
with pure joy. 

‘“Then see that the thirty pounds you’ve saved 
on it are honestly paid the King,” I says, “and keep 
clear o’ womenfolk.” I gathered up my draft and 
crumpled it under my arm. “If that’s all you need 
of me I’ll be gone,” I says, “for I’m pressed.” 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


76 

‘ He turns him round and fumbles in a corner. “ Too 
pressed to be made a knight, Sir Harry ?” he says, and 
comes at me smiling, with three-quarters of a rusty 
sword. 

‘I pledge you my Mark I never guessed it was the 
King till that moment. I kneeled, and he tapped me 
on the shoulder. 

I ‘“Rise up, Sir Harry Dawe,” he says, and in the 
same breath, “I’m pressed, too,” and slips through the 
tapestries, leaving me like a stuck calf. 

| ‘It come over me, in a bitter wave like, that here 
was I, a master craftsman, who had worked no bounds, 
soul or body, to make the King's tomb and chapel 
a triumph and a glory for all time; and here, d’you 
see, I was made knight, not for anything I'd slaved 
over, or given my heart and guts to, but expressedly 
because I’d saved him thirty pounds and a tongue- 
lashing from Catherine of Castile — she that had asked 
for the ship. That thought shrivelled me withinsides 
while I was folding away my draft. On the heels of 
it — maybe you’ll see why — I began to grin to myself. 
I thought of the earnest simplicity of the man — the 
King, I should say — because I’d saved him the money; 
his smile as though he’d won half France! I thought 
of my own silly pride and foolish expectations that 
some day he’d honour me as a master craftsman. I 
thought of the broken-tipped sword he’d found behind 
the hangings; the dirt of the cold room, and his cold 
eye, wrapped up in his own concerns, scarcely resting 
on me. Then I remembered the solemn chapel roof 



I kneeled and he tapped me on the shoulder. “ Rise up, 
Sir Harry Da we,” he says 










THE WRONG THING 


77 

and the bronzes about the stately tomb he’d lie in, 
and — d’ye see ? — the unreason of it all — the mad 
high humour of it all — took hold on me till I sat me 
down on a dark stair-head in a passage, and laughed 
till I could laugh no more. What else could I have 
done ? 

‘I never heard his feet behind me — he always 
walked like a cat — but his arm slid round my neck, 
pulling me back where I sat, till my head lay on his 
chest, and his left hand held the knife plumb over my 
heart — Benedetto! Even so I laughed — the fit was 
beyond my holding — laughed while he ground his 
teeth in my ear. He was stark crazed for the time. 

‘“Laugh,” he said. “Finish the laughter. I’ll not 
cut ye short. Tell me now” — he wrenched at my 
head — “why the King chose to honour you —you — 
you—you lickspittle Englishman? I am full of 
patience now. I have waited so long.” Then he was 
oflF at score about his Jonah in Bury Refectory, and 
what I’d said of it, and his pictures in the chapel which 
all men praised and none looked at twice (as if that 
was my fault!) and a whole parcel of words and looks 
treasured up against me through years. 

‘“Ease off your arm a little,” I said. “I cannot die 
by choking, for I am just dubbed knight, Benedetto.” 

‘“Tell me, and I’ll confess ye, Sir Harry Dawe, 
knight. There ’3 a long night before ye. Tell,” 
says he. 

‘So I told him —his chin on my crown —told him 
all. Told it as well and with as many words as I have 


78 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


ever told a tale at a supper with Torrigiano. I knew 
Benedetto would understand, for, mad or sad, he was 
a craftsman. I believed it to be the last tale I’d ever 
tell top of mortal earth, and I would not put out bad 
work before I left the lodge. All art’s one art, as I 
said. I bore Benedetto no malice. My spirits, 
d’you see, were catched up in a high, solemn exaltation, 
and I saw all earth’s vanities foreshortened and little, 
laid out below me like a town from a cathedral scaffold¬ 
ing. I told him what befell, and what I thought of it, 
I gave him the King’s very voice at “ Master Dawe, 
you’ve saved me thirty pounds!” his peevish grunt 
while he looked for the sword; and how the badger¬ 
eyed figures of Glory and Victory leered at me 
from the Flemish hangings. Body o’ me, ’twas a 
fine, noble tale, and, as I thought, my last work on 
earth! 

‘“That is how I was honoured by the King,” I said. 
“They’ll hang ye for killing me, Benedetto. And, 
since you’ve killed in the King’s Palace, they’ll draw 
and quarter you; but you’re too mad to care. Grant 
me, though, ye never heard a better tale.” 

‘He said nothing, but I felt him shake. My head 
on his chest shook; his right arm fell away, his left 
dropped the knife, and he leaned with both hands 
on my shoulder — shaking — shaking! I turned me 
round. No need to put my foot on his knife. The 
man was speechless with laughter — honest crafts¬ 
man’s mirth. The first time I’d ever seen him laugh. 
You know the mirth that cuts off the very breath, 


79 


THE WRONG THING 

while ye stamp and snatch at the short ribs ? That was 
Benedetto’s case. 

‘When he began to roar and bay and whoop in the 
passage, I haled him out into the street, and there we 
leaned against the wall and had it all over again — 
waving our hands and wagging our heads — till the 
watch came to know if we were drunk. 

‘Benedetto says to ’em, solemn as an owl: “You 
have saved me thirty pounds, Mus’ Dawe,” and off 
he pealed. In some sort we were mad drunk — I 
because dear life had been given back to me, and he 
because, as he said afterwards, because the old crust 
of hatred round his heart was broke up and carried 
away by laughter. His very face had changed too. 

‘“Hal,” he cries, “I forgive thee. Forgive me too, 
Hal. Oh, you English, you English! Did it gall thee, 
Hal, to see the rust on the dirty sword ? Tell me again, 
Hal, how the King grunted with joy. Oh, let us tell 
the Master.” 

‘So we reeled back to the chapel, arms round each 
other’s necks, and when we could speak — he thought 
we’d been fighting—we told the Master. Yes, we 
told Torrigiano, and he laughed till he rolled on the new 
cold pavement. Then he knocked our heads together. 

‘“Ah, you English,” he cried. “You are more than 
pigs. You are English. Now you are well punished 
for your dirty fishes. Put the draft in the fire, and 
never do so any more. You are a fool, Hal, and you 
are a fool, Benedetto, but I need your works to please 
this beautiful English King- 99 


8o 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


* “ And I meant to kill Hal/’ says Benedetto. “ Mas- 
ter, I meant to kill him because the English King had 
made him a knight.” 

‘“Ah!” says the Master, shaking his finger. “Bene¬ 
detto, if you had killed my Hal, I should have killed 
you — in the cloister. But you are a craftsman, too, 
so I should have killed you like a craftsman, very, very 
slowly — in an hour, if I could spare the time!” That 
was Torrigiano—the Master!’ 

Mr. Springett sat quite still for some time after Hal 
had finished. Then he turned dark red: then he 
rocked to and fro; then he coughed and wheezed till 
the tears ran down his face. Dan knew by this that 
he was laughing, but it surprised Hal at first. 

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mr. Springett, ‘but I was 
thinkin’ of some stables I built for a gentleman in 
Eighteen hundred Seventy-four. They was stables 
in blue brick — very particular work. Dunno as 
they weren’t the best job which ever I’d done. But the 
gentleman’s lady — she’d come from Lunnon, new 
married — she was all for buildin’ what she called a 
haw-haw — what you an’ me ’ud call a dik — right 
acrost his park. A middlin’ big job which I’d have 
had the contract of, for she spoke to me in the library 
about it. But I told her there was a line o’ springs 
just where she wanted to dig her ditch, an’ she’d flood 
the park if she went on.’ 

‘Were there any springs at all ?’ said Hal. 

‘Bound to be springs everywhere if you dig deep 
enough, ain’t there ? But what I said about the springs 


THE WRONG THING 


81 


put her out o’ conceit o’ diggin’ haw-haws, an’ she took 
an’ built a white tile dairy instead. But when I sent 
in my last bill for the stables, the gentleman he paid it 
’thout even lookin’ at it, and I hadn’t forgotten nothin’, 
I do assure you. More than that, he slips two five* 
pound notes into my hand in the library, an’ “Ralph,” 
he says — he allers called me by name — “ Ralph,” 
he says, “you’ve saved me a heap of expense an’ 
trouble this autumn.” I didn’t say nothin’, o’ course. 
I knowed he didn’t want any haw-haws digged acrost 
his park no more’n I did, but I never said nothing. 
No more he didn’t say nothing about my blue-brick 
stables, which was really the best an’ honestest piece 
o’ work I’d done in quite a while. He give me ten 
pounds for savin’ him a hem of a deal o’ trouble at 
home. I reckon things are pretty much alike, all times, 
in all places/ 

Hal and he laughed together. Dan couldn’t quite 
understand what they thought so funny, and went on 
with his work for some time without speaking. 

When he looked up Mr. Springett, alone, was 
wiping his eyes with his green and yellow pocket- 
handkerchief. 

‘Bless me, Mus’ Dan, I’ve been asleep,’ he said. 
‘An’ I’ve dreamed a dream which has made me laugh 
— laugh as I ain’t laughed in a long day. I can’t 
remember what ’twas all about, but they do say that 
when old men take to laughin’ in their sleep, they’re 
middlin’ ripe for the next world. Have you been 
workin’ honest, Mus’ Dan?’ 


82 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


4 Ra-ather,’ said Dan, unclamping the schooner from 
the vice. ‘And look how Eve cut myself with the 
small gouge/ 

‘Ye-es. You want a lump o’ cobwebs to that/ said 
Mr. Springett. ‘Oh, I see you’ve put it on already. 
That’s right, Mus’ Dan.’ 



KING HENRY VII AND THE 
SHIPWRIGHTS 


Harry our King in England, from London town 
is gone, 

And comen to Hamuli on the Hoke in the countie 
of Suthampton. 

For there lay The Mary of the Tower , his ship of 
war so strong, 

And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights 
did him wrong. 

He told not none of his setting forth, nor yet where 
he would go, 

(But only my Lord of Arundel) and meanly did 
he show, 

In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might 
him mark, 

With his frieze hood and cloak about, he looked 
like any clerk. 

He was at Hamuli on the Hoke about the hour of 
the tide, 

And saw the Mary haled into dock, the winter to 
abide, 

With all her tackle and habilaments which are the 
King his own; 


84 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped 
her to the bone. 


They heaved the main-mast overboard, that was of 
a trusty tree, 

And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force 
of weather at sea. 

But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as 
it might go, 

To maken beds for their own wives and little children 
also. 


There was a knave called Slingawai, he crope beneath 
the deck, 

Crying: ‘Good felawes, come and see! The ship 
is nigh a wreck! 

For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew 
so fierce and fell, 

Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this 
brass pott as well!’ 

With that he set the pott on his head and hied him 
up the hatch, 

While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they 
might snatch; 

All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman 
good, 

He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him 
on to the mud 


HENRY VII AND THE SHIPWRIGHTS 85 

‘I have taken plank and rope and nail, without the 
King his leave, 

After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer 
a thief. 

Nay, never lift up thy hand at me! There’s no clean 
hands in the trade — 

Steal in measure,’ quo’ Brygandyne. ‘There’s measure 
in all things made!’ 

‘Gramercy, yeoman!’ said our King. ‘Thy council 
liketh me.’ 

And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled 
whistles three. 

Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across 
the down, 

And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry 
Suthampton town. 

They drew the naughty shipwrights up, with the 
kettles in their hands, 

And bound them round the forecastle to wait the 
King’s commands. 

But ‘Since ye have made your beds,’ said the King, 
‘ye needs must lie thereon. 

For the sake of your wives and little ones — felawes, 
get you gone!’ 

When they had beaten Slingawai, out of his own lips 

Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all 
his ships. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Nay, never lift up thy hands to me — there’s no 
clean hands in the trade. 

But steal in measure/ said Harry our King. 
‘There’s measure in all things made!’ 

God speed the ‘Mary of the Tower / the ‘ Sovereign* 
and ‘ Grace Dieuf 

The ‘Sweepstakes’ and the ‘Mary Fortune / and the 
‘Henry of Bristol’ too! 

All tall ships that sail on the sea , or in our harbours 
stand , 

That they may keep measure with Harry our Kin£ 
and peace in Engeland / 



Marklake Witche 









THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS 


They shut the road through the woods 
Seventy years ago. 

Weather and rain have undone it again, 

And now you would never know 
There was once a road through the woods 
Before they planted the trees. 

It i? underneath the coppice and heath. 

And the thin anemones. 

Only the keeper sees 
That, where the ring-dove broods, 

And the badgers roll at ease, 

There was once a road through the woods 

Yet, if you enter the woods 
Of a summer evening late, 

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools 
Where the otter whistles his mate. 

(They fear not men in the woods 
Because they see so few) 

You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet. 

And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 

Steadily cantering through 
The misty solitudes, 

As though they perfectly knew 
The old lost road through the woods . 
But there is no road through the woods. 

8q 














































































- .* 

































































































MARKLAKE WITCHES 


When Dan took up boat-building, Una coaxed Mrs 
Vincey, the farmer’s wife at Little Lindens, to teach 
her to milk. Mrs. Vincey milks in the pasture in 
summer, which is different from milking in the shed, 
because the cows are not tied up, and until they know 
you they will not stand still. After three weeks Una 
could milk Red Cow or Kitty Shorthorn quite dry, 
without her wrists aching, and then she allowed Dan 
to look. But milking did not amuse him, and it was 
pleasanter for Una to be alone in the quiet pastures 
with quiet-spoken Mrs. Vincey. So, evening after 
evening, she slipped across to Little Lindens, took her 
stool from the fern-clump beside the fallen oak, and 
went to work, her pail between her knees, and her 
head pressed hard into the cow’s flank. As often 
as not, Mrs. Vincey would be milking cross Pansy at the 
other end of the pasture, and would not come near till 
it was time to strain and pour off. 

Once, in the middle of a milking, Kitty Shorthorr 
boxed Una’s ear with her tail. 

‘You old pig!’ said Una, nearly crying, for a cow’s 
tail can hurt. 

‘Why didn’t you tie it down, child?’ said a voice 
behind her. 


91 


92 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off*—• 
and this is what she’s done!’ Una looked round, 
expecting Puck, and saw a curly-ha*ired girl, not 
much taller than herself, but older, dressed in a curious 
high-waisted, lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a 
high hunched collar and a deep cape and a belt fastened 
with a steel clasp. She wore a yellow velvet cap and 
tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop. Her 
cheeks were pale except for two pretty pink patches 
in the middle, and she talked with little gasps at the 
end of her sentences, as though she had been running. 

‘You don’t milk so badly, child,’ she said, and when 
she smiled her teeth showed small and even and 
pearly. 

‘Can you milk?’ Una asked, and then flushed, 
for she heard Puck’s chuckle. 

He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding 
Kitty Shorthorn s tail. ‘There isn’t much,’ he said, 
‘that Miss Philadelphia doesn’t know about milk — 
or, for that matter, butter and eggs. She’s a great 
housewife.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Una. ‘I’m sorry I can’t shake hands. 
Mine are all milky; but Mrs. Vincey is going to teach 
me butter-making this summer.’ 

‘Ah! /’m going to London this summer,’ the girl 
said, ‘to my aunt in Bloomsbury.’ She coughed 
as she began to hum, “‘Oh, what a town! What a 
wonderful metropolis!”’ 

‘You’ve got a cold?’ said Una. 

‘No. Only my stupid cough. But it’s vastly 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 93 

better than it was last winter. It will disappear 
in London air. Every one says so. D’you like 
doctors, child?’ 

‘I don’t know any,’ Una replied. ‘But I’m sure 
I shouldn’t.’ 

‘Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,’ 
the girl laughed, for Una frowned. 

‘I’m not a child, and my name’s Una,’ she said. 

‘Mine’s Philadelphia. But everybody except 
Rene calls me Phil. Pm Squire Bucksteed’s daughter 
— over to Marklake yonder.’ She jerked her little 
round chin toward the south behind Dallington. 
‘Sure-ly you know Marklake?’ 

‘We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,’ said 
Una. ‘It’s awfully pretty. I like all those funny 
little roads that don’t lead anywhere.’ 

‘They lead over our land,’ said Philadelphia stiffly, 
‘and the coach road is only four miles away. One 
can go anywhere from the Green. I went to the Assize 
Ball at Lewes last year.’ She spun round and took a few 
dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side. 

‘It gives me a stitch,’ she explained. ‘No odds. 
’Twill go away in London air. That’s the latest 
French step, child. Rene taught it me. D’you hate 
the French, chi-Una?’ 

‘Well, I hate French, of course, but I don’t mind 
Mam’selle. She’s rather decent. Is Rene your 
French governess ?’ 

Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again. 

‘Oh no! Rene’s a French prisoner — on parole- 


94 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


That means he’s promised not to escape till he 
has been properly exchanged for an Englishman. 
He’s only a doctor, so I hope they won’t think him 
worth exchanging. My Uncle captured him last year 
in the Ferdinand privateer, off Belle Isle, and he cured 
my Uncle of a r-r-raging toothache. Of course, after 
that we couldn’t let him lie among the common French 
prisoners at Rye, and so he stays with us. He’s of 
very old family — a Breton, which is nearly next door 
to being a true Briton, my father says — and he 
wears his hair clubbed — not powdered. Much more 
becoming, don’t you think ?’ 

4 1 don’t know what you’re-’ Una began, 

but Puck, the other side of the pail, winked, and she 
went on with her milking. 

‘He’s going to be a great French physician when 
the war is over. He makes me bobbins for my lace* 
pillow now — he’s very clever with his hands; but 
he’d doctor our people on the Green if they would 
let him. Only our Doctor — Dr. Break — says he’s 
an emp — or imp something — worse than impos¬ 
tor. But my Nurse says-” 

‘Nurse! You’re ever so old. What have you got 
a nurse for?’ Una finished milking, and turned round 
on her stool as Kitty Shorthorn grazed off. 

‘ Because I can’t get rid of her. Old Cissie nursed 
my mother, and she says she’ll nurse me till she dies. 
The idea! She never lets me alone. She thinks I’m 
delicate. She has grown infirm in her understanding 
you know. Mad — quite mad, poor Cissie!’ 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


95 


‘Really mad?’ said Una. ‘Or just silly?’ 

‘Crazy I should say — from the things she does. 
Her devotion to me is terribly embarrassing. You 
know I have all the keys of the Hall except the brewery 
and the tenants’ kitchen. I give out all stores and the 
linen and plate.’ 

‘ How jolly! I love store-rooms and giving out things.’ 

‘Ah, it’s a great responsibility you’ll find when 
you come to my age. Last year Dad said I was fatigu¬ 
ing myself with my duties, and he actually wanted 
me to give up the keys to old Amoore, our housekeeper. 
I wouldn’t. I hate her. I said, “No, sir. I am Mis¬ 
tress of Marklake Hall just as long as I live, because 
I’m never going to be married, and I shall give out 
stores and linen till I die!”’ 

‘And what did your father say?’ 

‘Oh, I threatened to pin a dishclout to his coat¬ 
tail. He ran away. Every one’s afraid of Dad, 
except me.’ Philadelphia stamped her foot. ‘The 
idea! If I can’t make my own father happy in his 
own house, I’d like to meet the woman that can, 
and — and — I’d have the living hide off her!’ 

She cut with her long-thonged whip. It cracked 
like a pistol-shot across the still pasture. Kitty 
Shorthorn threw up her head and trotted away. 

‘I beg your pardon,’ Philadelphia said; ‘but it 
makes me furious. Don’t you hate those ridiculous 
old quizzes with their feathers and fronts, who come 
to dinner and call you “child” in your own chair at 
your own table ?’ 


96 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘I don’t always come to dinner/ said Una, ‘but 
I hate being called “child.” Please tell me about 
store-rooms and giving out things/ 

‘Ah, it’s a great responsibility — particularly with 
that old cat Amoore looking at the lists over your 
shoulder. And such a shocking thing happened last 
summer! Poor crazy Cissie, my Nurse that I was 
telling you of, she took three solid silver tablespoons/ 

‘Took! But isn’t that stealing?’ Una cried. 

‘Hsh!’ said Philadelphia, looking round at Puck. 
‘All I say is she took them without my leave. I made 
it right afterward. So, as Dad says — and he’s a 
magistrate — it wasn’t a legal offence; it was only 
compounding a felony.’ 

‘It sounds awful,’ said Una. 

‘It was. My dear, I was furious! I had had the 
keys for ten months, and I’d never lost anything before. 
I said nothing at first, because a big house offers so 
many chances of things being mislaid, and coming 
to hand later. “Fetching up in the lee-scuppers,” 
my Uncle calls it. But next week I spoke to old 
Cissie about it when she was doing my hair at night, 
and she said I wasn’t to worry my heart for trifles!’ 

‘Isn’t it like ’em?’ Una burst out. ‘They see 
you’re worried over something that really matters, 
and they say, “Don’t worry”; as if that did any good!’ 

‘I quite agree with you, my dear; quite agree 
with you! I told Ciss the spoons were solid silver, 
and worth forty shillings; so if the thief were found, 
he’d be tried for his life/ 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


97 


Hanged, do you mean?’ Una said. 
c They ought to be; but Dad says no jury will bang 
Jl man nowadays for a forty-shilling theft. They 
transport ’em into penal servitude at the uttermost 
ends of the earth beyond the seas, for the term of their 
natural life. I told Cissie that, and I saw her tremble 
in my mirror. Then she cried, and caught hold of 
my knees, and I couldn’t for my life understand what 
it was all about, — she cried so. Can you guess, my 
dear, what that poor crazy thing had done ? It was 
midnight before I pieced it together. She had given 
the spoons to Jerry Gamm, the Witchmaster on the 
Green, so that he might put a charm on me! Me!’ 

‘Put a charm on you? Why?’ 

‘That’s what I asked; and then I saw how mad 
poor Cissie was! You know this stupid little cough 
of mine ? It will disappear as soon as I go to London. 
She was troubled about that , and about my being so 
thin, and she told me Jerry had promised her, if she 
would bring him three silver spoons, that he’d charm 
my cough away and make me plump — “flesh-up,” 
she said. I couldn’t help laughing; but it was a terrible 
night! I had to put Cissie into my own bed, and stroke 
her hand till she cried herself to sleep. What else 
could I have done ? When she woke, and I coughed — 
I suppose I can cough in my own room if I please 
— she said that she’d killed me, and asked me to 
have her hanged at Lewes sooner than send her to 
the uttermost ends of the earth away from me/ 

‘How awful! What did you do, Phil?’ 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


98 

‘ Do ? I rode off at five in the morning to talk 
to Master Jerry, with a new lash on my whip. Oh, 
I was furious\ Witchmaster or no witchmaster, I 
meant to-’ 

‘Ah! What’s a Witchmaster?’ 

‘A master of witches, of course. I don’t believe 
there are witches, but people say every village has a 
few, and Jerry was the master of all ours at Marklake. 
He has been a smuggler, and a man-of-war’s man, 
and now he pretends to be a carpenter and joiner — 
he can make almost anything — but he really is a 
white wizard. He cures people by herbs and charms. 
He can cure them after Dr. Break has given them up, 
and that’s why Dr. Break hates him so. He used to 
make me toy carts, and charm off my warts when I was 
a child.’ Philadelphia spread out her hands with the 
delicate shiny little nails. ‘It isn’t counted lucky 
to cross him. He has his ways of getting even with 
you, they say. But I wasn’t afraid of Jerry! I 
saw him working in his garden, and I leaned out of 
my saddle and double-thonged him between the 
shoulders, over the hedge. Well, my dear, for the 
first time since Dad gave him to me, my Troubadour (I 
wish you could see the sweet creature!) shied across 
the road, and I spilled out into the hedge-top. Most 
undignified! Jerry pulled me through to his side and 
brushed the leaves off* me. I was horribly pricked, 
but I didn’t care. “Now, Jerry,” I said, “I’m going 
to take the hide off you first, and send you to Lewes 
afterward. You well know why.” “Oh!” he said 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


99 

and he sat down among his bee-hives. “Then I 
reckon you’ve come about old Cissie’s business, my 
dear.” “I reckon I just about have,” I said. “Stand 
away from these hives. I can’t get at you there/ 
“That’s why I be where I be,” he said. “If you’ll 
excuse me, Miss Phil, I don’t hold with bein’ flogged 
before breakfast, at my time o’ life.” He’s a huge 
big man, but he looked so comical squatting among 
the hives that — I know I oughtn’t to — I laughed, 
and he laughed. I always laugh at the wrong time. 
But I soon recovered my dignity, and I said, “Then 
give me back what you made poor Cissie steal!” 

‘“Your pore Cissie,” he said. “She’s a hatful 
o’ trouble. But you shall have ’em, Miss Phil. 
They’re all ready put by for you.” And, would you 
believe it, the old sinner pulled my three silver spoons 
out of his dirty pocket, and polished them on his cuff! 
“Here they be,” he says, and he gave them to me, 
just as cool as though I’d come to have my warts 
charmed. That’s the worst of people having known 
you when you were young. But I preserved my 
composure. “Jerry,” I said, “what in the world are 
we to do ? If you’d been caught with these things on 
you, you’d have been hanged.” 

‘“I know it,” he said. “But they’re yours now.” 

‘“But you made my Cissie steal them,” I said. 

“‘That I didn’t,” he said. “Your Cissie, she 
svas pickin’ at me and tarrifyin’ me all the long day 
an’ every day for weeks, to put a charm on you. Miss 
Phil, and take away your little spitty cough.” 


TOO 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘“Yes, I knew that, Jerry, and to make me flesh up!” 
I said. “Em much obliged to you, but Em not one 
of your pigs!” 

“‘Ah! I reckon she’ve been talking to you, then,” 
he said. “Yes, she give me no peace, and bein* 
tarrified — for I don’t hold with old women — I laid 
a task on her which I thought ’ud silence her. 1 
never reckoned the old scrattle ’ud risk her neckbone 
at Lewes Assizes for your sake, Miss Phil. But she 
did! She up an’ stole, I tell ye, as cheerful as a tinker 
You might ha’ knocked me down with any one of them 
liddle spoons when she brung ’em in her apron.” 

‘“Do you mean to say then, that you did it to tr) 
my poor Cissie ?” I screamed at him. 

‘“What else for, dearie?” he said. “J don’t stand 
in need of hedge-stealings. Em a freeholder, with 
money in the bank; and now I won’t trust women no 
more! Silly old besom! I do beleft she’d ha’ stole 
the Squire’s big fob-watch, if Ed required her.” 

‘“Then you’re a wicked, wicked old man,” I said, 
and I was so angry that I couldn’t help crying, and 
of course that made me cough. 

‘Jerry was in a fearful taking. He picked me up 
and carried me into his cottage — it’s full of foreign 
curiosities — and he got me something to eat and 
drink, and he said he’d be hanged by the neck any day 
if it pleased me. He said he’d even tell old Cissie he 
was sorry. That’s a great come-down for a Witch- 
master, you know. 

‘I was ashamed of myself for being so silly, and 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


IOI 


I dabbed my eyes and said, “The least you can do 
now is to give poor Cissie some sort of a charm 
for me.” 

‘“Yes, that’s only fair dealings,” he said. “You 
know the names of the Twelve Apostles, dearie ? 
You say them names, one by one, before your open 
window, rain or storm, wet or shine, five times a day 
fasting. But mind you, ’twixt every name you 
draw in your breath through your nose, right down 
to your pretty liddle toes, as long and as deep as you 
can, and let it out slow through your pretty liddle 
mouth. There’s virtue for your cough in those names 
spoke that way. And I’ll give you something you can 
see, moreover. Here’s a stick of maple which is the 
warmest tree in the wood.’” 

‘That’s true,’ Una interrupted. ‘You can feel 
it almost as warm as yourself when you touch it.’ 

‘“It’s cut one inch long for your every year,” Jerry 
said. “‘That’s sixteen inches. You set it in your 
window .so that it holds up the sash, and thus you keep 
it, rain or shine, wet or fine, day and night. I’ve 
said words over it which will have virtue on your 
complaints.” 

“‘I haven’t any complaints, Jerry,” I said. “It’s 
only to please Cissie.” 

‘“I know that as well as you do, dearie,” he said. 
And — and that was all that came of my going to give 
him a flogging. I wonder whether he made poor 
Troubadour shy when I lashed at him ? Jerry has 
his ways of getting even with people.’ 



102 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘I wonder/ said Una. ‘ Well, did you try the charm ? 
Did it work ?’ 

‘What nonsense! I told Rene about it, of course, 
because he’s a doctor. He’s going to be a most 
famous doctor. That’s why our doctor hates him. 
Rene said, “Oho!* Your Master Gamm, he is worth 
knowing,” and he put up his eyebrows — like this. 
He made joke of it all. He can see my window from 
the carpenter’s shed, where he works, and if ever the 
maple stick fell down, he pretended to be in a fearful 
taking till I propped the window up again. He used 
to ask me whether I had said my Apostles properly, 
and how I took my deep breaths. Oh yes, and the 
next day, though he had been there ever so many 
times before, he put on his new hat and paid Jerry 
Gamm a visit of state — as a fellow-physician. Jerry 
never guessed Rene was making fun of him, and so 
he told Rene about the sick people in the village, and 
how he cured them with herbs after Dr. Break 
had given them up. Jerry could talk smugglers’ 
French, of course, and I had taught Rene plenty of 
English, if only he wasn’t so shy. They called each 
other Monsieur Gamm and Mosheur Lanark, just 
like gentlemen. I suppose it amused poor Rene. 
He hasn’t much to do, except to fiddle about in the 
carpenter’s shop. He’s like all the French prisoners —• 
always making knick-knacks, and Jerry had a little 
lathe at his cottage, and so — and so — Rene took to 
being with Jerry much more than I approved of. The 
Hall is so big and empty when Dad’s away, and I 



MARKLAKE WITCHES 


103 

will not sit with old Amoore — she talks so horridly 
about every one — specially about Rene. 

‘I was rude to Rene, Em afraid; but I was properly 
served out for it. One always is. You see Dad 
went down to Hastings to pay his respects to the 
General who commanded the brigade there, and to 
bring him to the Hall afterward. Dad told me he 
was a very brave soldier from India — he was Colonel 
of Dad’s regiment, the Thirty-third Foot, after Dad 
left the Army — and then he changed his name from 
Wesley to Wellesley, or else the other way about; 
and Dad said I was to get out all the silver for him, 
and I knew that meant a big dinner. So I sent down 
to the sea for early mackerel, and had such a morning 
in the kitchen and the store-rooms! Old Amoore 
nearly cried. 

‘However, my dear, I made all my preparations 
in ample time, but the fish didn’t arrive — it never 
does — and I wanted Rene to ride to Pevensey and 
bring it himself. He had gone over to Jerry, of course, 
as he always used, unless I requested his presence 
beforehand. / can’t send for Rene every time I want 
him. He should be there. Now, don’t you ever do 
what I did, child, because it’s in the highest degree 
unladylike; but — but one of our woods runs up to 
Jerry’s garden, and if you climb — it’s ungenteel, 
but I can climb like a kitten — there’s an old hollow 
oak just above the pigsty where you can hear and see 
everything below. Truthfully, I only went to tell 
Rene about the mackerel, but I saw him and Jerry 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


104 

sitting on the seat playing with wooden toy trumpets. 
So I slipped into the hollow, and choked down my 
cough, and listened. Rene had never shown me any 
of these trumpets/ 

‘Trumpets? Aren’t you too old for trumpets? 
said Una. 

‘They weren’t real trumpets, because Jerry opened 
his shirt collar, and Rene put one end of his trumpet 
against Jerry’s chest, and put his ear to the other. 
Then Jerry put his trumpet against Rene’s chest, and 
listened while Rene breathed and coughed. I was 
afraid I would cough too. 

‘“This hollywood one is the best,” said Jerry. 
“ ’Tis won’erful like hearin’ a man’s soul whisperin' 
in his innards; but unless I’ve a buzzin’ in my ears, 
Mosheur Lanark, you make much about the same 
kind o’ noises as old Gaffer Macklin — but not quite 
so loud as young Copper. It sounds like breakers 
on a reef—a long way off. Comprenny?” 

‘“Perfectly,” said Rene. “I drive on the breakers. 
But before I strike, I shall save hundreds, thousands, 
millions perhaps, by my little trumpets. Now tell 
me what sounds the old Gaffer Macklin have made 
in his chest, and what the young Copper also.” 

‘Jerry talked for nearly a quarter of an hour about 
sick people in the village, while Rene asked questions. 
Then he sighed, and said, “You explain very well, 
Monsieur Gamm, but if only I had your opportunities 
to listen for myself! Do you think these poor people 
would let me listen to them through my trumpets—■ 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


105 

for a little money? No?” — Rene’s as poor as a 
church mouse. 

“‘They’d kill you, Mosheur. It’s all I can do to 
coax ’em to abide it, and I’m Jerry Gamm,” said 
Jerry. He’s very proud of his attainments. 

“‘Then these poor people are alarmed — No?” 
said Rene. 

“‘They’ve had it in at me for some time back 
because o’ my tryin’ your trumpets on their sick; 
and I reckon by the talk at the alehouse they won’t 
stand much more. Tom Dunch an’ some of his 
kidney was drinkin’ themselves riot-ripe when I passed 
along after noon. Charms an’ mutterin’s and bits 
o’ red wool and black hens is in the way o’ nature to 
these fools, Mosheur; but anything likely to do ’em 
real service is devil’s work by their estimation. If 
I was you, I’d go home before they come.” Jerry 
spoke quite quietly, and Rene shrugged his shoulders. 

“‘I am prisoner on parole, Monsieur Gamm,” h« 
said. “I have no home.” 

‘Now that was unkind of Rene. He’s often told 
me that he looked on England as his home. I suppose 
it’s French politeness. 

‘“Then we’ll talk o’ something that matters,” said 
Jerry. “Not to name no names, Mosheur Lanark, 
what might be your own opinion o’ some one who ain’t 
old Gaffer Macklin nor young Copper ? Is that 
person better or worse?’ 

‘ “ Better—for time that is,” said Rene. He meant for 
the time being, but I never could teach him some phrases. 


106 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘“I thought so too,” said Jerry. “But how about 
time to come ? ” 

‘Rene shook his head, and then he blew his nose. 
You don’t know how odd a man looks blowing his 
nose when you are sitting directly above him. 

‘“Eve thought that too,” said Jerry. He rumbled 
so deep I could scarcely catch. “It don’t make 
much odds to me, because I’m old. But you’re young, 
Mosheur—you’re young,” and he put his hand on 
Rene’s knee, and Rene covered it with his hand. I 
didn’t know they were such friends. 

‘“Thank you, mon ami ,” said Rene. “I am much 
oblige. Let us return to our trumpet-making. But 
I forget”—he stood up — “it appears that you 
receive this afternoon!” 

‘You can’t see into Gamm’s Lane from the oak, 
but the gate opened, and fat little Doctor Break 
stumped in, mopping his head, and half-a-dozen of 
our people followed him, very drunk. 

‘You ought to have seen Rene bow: he does it 
beautifully. 

“‘A word with you, Laennec,” said Dr. Break. 
‘Jerry has been practising some devilry or other 
on these poor wretches, and they’ve asked me to 
be arbiter.” 

‘“Whatever that means, I reckon it’s safer than 
asking you to be doctor,” said Jerry, and Tom Dunch, 
one of our carters, laughed. 

“‘That ain’t right feeling of you, Tom,” Jerry 
said, “ seeing how clever Dr. Break put away your thorn 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


107 

in the flesh last winter.” Tom’s wife had died at 
Christmas, though Dr. Break bled her twice a week. 
He danced with rage. 

“‘This is all beside the mark,” he said. “These 
good people are willing to testify that you’ve been 
impudently prying into God’s secrets by means of 
some papistical contrivance which this person” — 
he pointed to poor Rene — “has furnished you with. 
Why, here are the things themselves!” Rene was 
holding a trumpet in his hand. 

‘Then all the men talked at once. They said Old 
Gaffer Macklin was dying from stitches in his side 
where Jerry had put the trumpet — they called it the 
devil’s ear-piece; and they said it left round red witch- 
marks on people’s skins, and dried up their lights, and 
made ’em spit blood, and threw ’em into sweats. 
Terrible things they said. You never heard such a 
noise. I took advantage of it to cough. 

‘Rene and Jerry were standing with their backs 
to the pigsty. Jerry fumbled in his big flap pockets 
and fished up a pair of pistols. You ought to have seen 
the men give back when he cocked his. He passed 
one to Rene. 

‘“Wait! Wait!” said Rene. “I will explain to the 
doctor if he permits.” He waved a trumpet at him, 
and the men at the gate shouted, “Don’t touch it, 
Doctor! Don’t lay a hand to the thing.” 

‘“Come, come!” said Rene. “You are not so 
big fool as you pretend, Dr. Break. No?” 

‘Dr. Break backed toward the gate, watching 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


108 

Jerry’s pistol, and Rene followed him with his trumpet, 
like a nurse trying to amuse a child, and put the 
ridiculous thing to his ear to show how it was used, and 
talked of la Gloire , and la Humamte , and la Science, 
while Dr. Break watched Jerry’s pistol and swore. 
I nearly laughed aloud. 

“‘Now listen! Now listen!” said Rene. “This will 
be moneys in your pockets, my dear confrere . You 
will become rich.” 

‘Then Dr. Break said something about adventurers 
who could not earn an honest living in their own 
country creeping into decent houses, and taking 
advantage of gentlemen’s confidence to enrich them¬ 
selves by base intrigues. 

‘Rene dropped his absurd trumpet and made one 
of his best bows. I knew he was angry from the 
way he rolled his “r’s.” 

‘“Ver-r-ry good,” said he. “For that I shall have? 
much pleasure to kill you now and here. Monsieur 
Gamm” — another bow to Jerry — “you will please 
lend him your pistol, or he shall have mine. I give 
you my word I know not which is best; and if he 
will choose a second from his friends over there” — 
another bow to our drunken yokels at the gate —* 
“we will commence.” 

‘“That’s fair enough,” said Jerry. “Tom Dunch, you 
owe it to the doctor to be his second. Place your man.” 

‘“No,” said Tom. “No mixin’ in gentry’s quarrels 
for me.” And he shook his head and went out, and 
the others followed him. 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


109 

‘“Hold on,” said Jerry. “You’ve forgot what 
you set out to do up at the alehouse just now. You 
was goin’ to search me for witchmarks; you was goin’ 
to duck me in the pond; you was goin’ to drag all my 
bits o’ sticks out o’ my little cottage here. What’s 
the matter with you ? Wouldn’t you like to be with 
your old woman to-night, Tom ?” 

‘But they didn’t even look back, much less come. 
They ran to the village alehouse like hares. 

‘“No matter for these canaille,” said Rene, buttoning 
up his coat so as to not show any linen. All gentlemen 
do that before a duel, Dad says — and he’s been out 
five times. “You shall be his second, Monsieur 
Gamm. Give him the pistol.” 

‘Dr. Break took it as if it was red-hot, but he said 
that if Rene resigned his pretensions in certain quarters 
he would pass over the matter. Rene bowed deeper 
than ever. 

‘“As for that” he said, “if you were not the ignorant 
which you are, you would have known long ago that 
the subject of your remarks is not for any living man.” 

‘I don’t know what the subject of his remarks 
might have been, but he spoke in a simply dreadful 
voice, my dear, and Dr. Break turned quite white, 
and said Rene was a liar; and then Rene caught him 
by the throat, and choked him black. 

‘Well, my dear, as if this wasn’t deliciously exciting 
enough, just exactly at that minute I heard a strange 
voice on the other side of the hedge say, “What’s 
this? What’s this, Bucksteed?” and there was my 


IIO 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


father and Sir Arthur Wesley on horseback in the 
lane; and there was Rene kneeling on Dr. Break, and 
there was I up in the oak, listening with all my ears. 

‘I must have leaned forward too much, and the 
voice gave me such a start that I slipped. I had only 
time to make one jump on to the pigsty roof — another, 
before the tiles broke, on to the pigsty wall, and then 
I bounced down into the garden, just behind Jerry, 
with my hair full of bark. Imagine the situation!’ 

‘Oh, I can!’ Una laughed till she nearly fell off 
the stool. 

‘Dad said, “Phil—a—del—phia!” and Sir Arthur 
Wesley said, “Good Ged!” and Jerry put his foot 
on the pistol Rene had dropped. But Rene was 
splendid. He never even looked at me. He began 
to untwist Dr. Break’s neckcloth as fast as he’d twisted 
it, and asked him if he felt better. 

“‘What’s happened ? What’s happened ?” said Dad. 

“‘A fit!” said Rene. “I fear my confrere has had 
a fit. Do not be alarmed. He recovers himself. 
Shall I bleed you a little, my dear Doctor?” Dr. 
Break was very good, too. He said, “I am vastly 
obliged, Monsieur Laennec, but I am restored now.” 
And as he went out of the gate he told Dad it was a 
syncope — I think. Then Sir Arthur said, “Quite 
right, Bucksteed. Not another word! They are 
both gentlemen.” And he took off his cocked hat to 
Dr. Break and Rene. 

‘But poor Dad wouldn’t let well alone. He kept 
saying, “Philadelphia, what does all this mean?” 



MARKLAKE WITCHES 


iii 


‘“Well, sir,” I said, “Eve only just come down. 
As far as I could see, it looked as though Dr. Break 
had had a sudden seizure.” That was quite true — 
if you’d seen Rene seize him. Sir Arthur laughed. 
“Not much change there, Bucksteed,” he said. “She’s 
a lady — a thorough lady.” 

‘“Heaven knows she doesn’t look like one,” said 
poor Dad. “Go home, Philadelphia.” 

‘So I went home, my dear — don’t laugh so! — 
right under Sir Arthur’s nose — a most enormous 
nose — feeling as though I were twelve years old, 
going to be whipped. Oh, I beg your pardon, child! ’ 

‘ It’s all right,’ said Una. ‘ I’m getting on for thirteen. 
I’ve never been whipped, but I know how you felt. 
All the same, it must have been funny!” 

‘Funny! If you’d heard Sir Arthur jerking out, 
“Good Ged, Bucksteed!” every minute as they rode 
behind me; and poor Dad saying, “ ’Pon my honour, 
Arthur, I can’t account for it!” Oh, how my cheeks 
tingled when I reached my room! But Cissie had 
laid out my very best evening dress, the white satin one, 
vandyked at the bottom with spots of morone foil, 
and the pearl knots, you know, catching up the drapery 
from the left shoulder, I had poor mother’s lace 
tucker and her coronet comb.’ 

‘Oh, you lucky!’ Una murmured. ‘And gloves?* 
‘French kid, my dear.’ Philadelphia patted her 
shoulder — ‘and morone satin shoes and a morone 
and gold crape fan. That restored my calm. Nice 
things always do. I wore my hair banded on my 


112 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


forehead with a little curl over the left ear. And 
when I descended the stairs, en grande tenue , old 
Amoore curtsied to me without my having to stop and 
look at her, which alas! is too often the case. Sir 
Arthur highly approved of the dinner, my dear: the 
mackerel did come in time. We had all the Marklake 
silver out, and he drank my health, and he asked 
me where my little bird’s-nesting sister was. I know 
he did it to quizz me, so I looked him straight in the 
face, my dear, and I said, “I always send her to the 
nursery, Sir Arthur, when I receive guests at Marklake 
Hall.’” 

‘Oh, how chee — clever of you. What did he say ?* 
Una cried. 

‘He said, “Not much change there, Bucksteed. 
Ged, I deserved it,” and he toasted me again. They 
talked about the French and what a shame it was 
that Sir Arthur only commanded a brigade at Hastings, 
and he told Dad of a battle in India at a place called 
Assaye. Dad said it was a terrible fight, but Sir Arthur 
described it as though it had been a whist-party — 1 
suppose because a lady was present.’ 

‘Of course you were the lady. I wish I’d seen you/ 
said Una. 

‘I wish you had, child. I had such a triumph 
after dinner! Rene and Dr. Break came in. They 
had quite made up their quarrel, and they told me they 
had the highest esteem for each other, and I laughed 
and said, “I heard every word of it up in the tree.” 
You never saw two men so frightened in your life, and 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


”3 

when I said, “What was ‘the subject of your remarks/ 
Rene?” neither of them knew where to look. Oh, 
I quizzed them unmercifully. They’d seen me jump 
off the pigsty roof, remember/ 

‘But what was the subject of their remarks?’ said 
Una. 

‘Oh, Dr. Break said it was a professional matter, 
so the laugh was turned on me. I was horribly 
afraid it might have been something unladylike and 
indelicate. But that wasn’t my triumph. Dad asked 
me to play on the harp. Between just you and me, 
child, I had been practising a new song from London — 
I don’t always live in trees — for weeks; and I gave it 
them for a surprise/ 

‘What was it?’ said Una. ‘Sing it. 

“‘I have given my heart to a flower.” Not very 
difficult fingering, but r-r-ravishing sentiment.’ 
Philadelphia coughed and cleared her throat. 

‘I’ve a deep voice for my age and size/ she explained. 
‘Contralto, you know, but it ought to be stronger,’ 
and she began, her face all dark against the last of 
the soft pink sunset: — 


‘ I have given my heart to a flower, 
Though I know it is fading away; 
Though I know it will live but an hour 
And leave me to mourn its decay 1 


‘Isn’t that touchingly sweet ? Then the last verse —- 
I wish I had my harp, dear — goes as low as my 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


114 

register will reach/ She drew in her chin, and tool, 
a deep breath: — 

‘Ye desolate whirlwinds that rave 
I charge you be good to my dearl 
She is all — she is all that I have, 

And the time of our parting is near!* 


‘Beautiful!’ said Una. ‘And did they like it?’ 

‘Like it? They were overwhelmed— accables , as 
Rene says. My dear, if I hadn’t seen it, I shouldn't 
have believed that I could have drawn tears, genuine 
tears, to the eyes of four grown men. But I did! 
Rene simply couldn’t endure it! He’s all French 
sensibility. He hid his face and said, “ Assez Made¬ 
moiselle! C’est plus fort que moi! Assez!” And Sir 
Arthur blew his nose and said, “Good Ged! This 
is worse than Assaye!” While Dad sat with the tears 
simply running down his cheeks.’ 

‘And what did Dr. Break do?’ 

‘He got up and pretended to look out of the window, 
but I saw his little fat shoulders jerk as if he had the 
hiccoughs. That was a triumph. I never suspected 
him of sensibility.’ 

‘Oh, I wish I’d seen! I wish I’d been you,’ said 
Una, clasping her hands. Puck rustled and rose 
from the fern, just as a big blundering cockchafer 
flew smack against Una’s cheek. 

When she had finished rubbing the place, Mrs. 
Vincent called to her that Pansy had been fractious, 


MARKLAKE WITCHES 


ii 5 

or she would have come long before to help her strain 
and pour off. 

‘It didn’t matter/ said Una; ‘I just waited. Is that 
old Pansy barging about the lower pasture now?’ 

‘No/ said Mrs. Vincey, listening. ‘It sounds more 
like a horse being galloped middlin’ quick through the 
woods; but there’s no road there now. I reckon it’s 
one of Gleason’s colts loose. Shall I see you up to 
the house, Miss Una ?’ 

‘Gracious no! thank you. What’s going to hurt 
me ?’ said Una, and she put her stool away behind the 
oak, and strolled home through the gaps that old 
Hobden kept open for her. 




































































































































































BROOKLAND ROAD 


I was very well pleased with what I knowed, 

I reckoned myself no fool — 

Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road, 
That turned me back to school. 

Low down — low down! 

Where the liddle green lanterns shine — 

O maidsy I’ve done with ’ee all but one , 
And she can never be mine! 

’Twas right in the middest of a hot June night 
With thunder duntin’ round, 

And I see’d her face by the fairy light 
That beats from off the ground. 

She only smiled and she never spoke, 

She smiled and went away; 

But when she’d gone my heart was broke, 

And my wits was clean astray. 

Oh! Stop your ringing and let me be — 

Let be, O Brookland bells! 

You’ll ring Old Goodman 1 out of the sea, 
Before I wed one else! 

1 Earl Godwin of the Goodwin Sands ? 

117 



n8 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

Old Goodman’s farm is rank sea sand. 
And was this thousand year; 

But it shall turn to rich plough land 
Before I change my dear! 

Oh ! Fairfield church is water-bound 
From autumn to the spring; 

But it shall turn to high hill ground 
Before my bells do ring! 

Oh! leave me walk on the Brookland Road* 
In the thunder and warm rain — 

Oh! leave me look where my love goed. 
And p’raps I’ll see her again! 

Low down —low down ! 

Where the liddle green lanterns shine —■ 
0 maids , I’ve done with ’ee all but one y 
And she can never be mine! 


71 a 


The Knife and the Naked 

Chalk 




















































































































































THE RUN OF THE DOWNS 


The Weald is good , the Downs are best — 

Til give you the run of ’em , East to West . 

Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill, 

They were once and they are still. 

Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry 
Go back as far as sums’ll carry. 

Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring, 
They have looked on many a thing; 

And what those two have missed between ’em 
I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen ’em. 

Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down 
Knew Old England before the Crown. 

Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood 
Knew Old England before the Flood. 

And when you end on the Hampshire side — 
Butser’s old as Time and Tide. 

The Downs are sheep , the Weald is corn, 

You be glad you are Sussex born! 


121 







THE KNIFE AND THE NAKED CHALK 


The children went to the seaside for a month, and 
lived in a flint village on the bare windy chalk Downs, 
quite thirty miles away from home. They made 
friends with an old shepherd, called Mr. Dudeney, 
who had known their father when their father was 
little. He did not talk like their own people in the 
Weald of Sussex, and he used different names for 
farm things, but he understood how they felt, and 
let them go with him. He had a tiny cottage about 
half a mile from the village, where his wife made mead 
from thyme honey, and nursed sick lambs in front of 
a coal fire, while Old Jim, who was Mr. Dudeney’s 
sheep-dog’s father, lay at the door. They brought 
up beef bones for Old Jim (you must never give a 
sheep-dog mutton bones), and if Mr. Dudeney hap¬ 
pened to be far in the Downs, Mrs. Dudeney would 
tell the dog to take them to him, and he did. 

One August afternoon when the village water-cart 
had made the street smell specially townified, they 
went to look for their shepherd as usual, and, as usual, 
Old Jim crawled over the door-step and took them 
in charge. The sun was hot, the dry grass was very 
slippery, and the distances were very distant. 

‘It’s just like the sea,’ said Una, when Old Jim 
123 


124 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


halted in the shade of a lonely flint barn on a bare 
rise. ‘You see where you’re going, and—you go 
there, and there’s nothing between.’ 

Dan slipped off his shoes. ‘When we get home 
I shall sit in the woods all day,’ he said. 

‘Whuff!’ said Old Jim, to show he was ready, and 
struck across a long rolling stretch of turf. Presently 
he asked for his beef bone. 

‘Not yet,’ said Dan. ‘Where’s Mr. Dudeney? 
Where’s master?’ 

Old Jim looked as if he thought they were mad, 
and asked again. 

‘Don’t you give it him,’ Una cried. ‘I’m not 
going to be left howling in a desert.’ 

‘Show, boy! Show!’ said Dan, for the Downs 
seemed as bare as the palm of your hand. 

Old Jim sighed, and trotted forward. Soon they 
spied the blob of Mr. Dudeney’s hat against the sky 
a long way off. 

‘Right! All right!’ said Dan. Old Jim wheeled 
round, took his bone carefully between his blunted 
teeth, and returned to the shadow of the old barn, 
looking just like a wolf. The children went on. Two 
kestrels hung bivvering and squealing above them. 
A gull flapped lazily along the white edge of the cliffs. 
The curves of the Downs shook a little in the heat, 
and so did Mr. Dudeney’s distant head. 

They walked toward it very slowly and found them¬ 
selves staring into a horse-shoe-shaped hollow a hundred 
feet deep, whose steep sides were laced with tangled 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 125 

sheep-tracks. The flock grazed on the flat at the 
bottom, under charge of Young Jim. Mr. Dudeney 
sat comfortably knitting on the edge of the slope, his 
crook between his knees. They told him what Old 
Jim had done. 

‘Ah, he thought you could see my head as soon as 
he did. The closeter you be to the turf the more you see 
things. You look warm-like/ said Mr. Dudeney. 

‘We be/ said Una, flopping down. ‘And tired!’ 

‘Set beside o’ me here. The shadow’ll begin 
to stretch out in a little while, and a heat-shake o* 
wind will come up with it that’ll overlay your eyes 
like so much wool.’ 

‘We don’t want to sleep,’ said Una indignantly; 
but she settled herself as she spoke, in the first strip 
of early afternoon shade. 

‘O’ course not. You come to talk with me same 
as your father used. He didn’t need no dog to guide 
him to Norton Pit.’ 

‘Well, he belonged here,’ said Dan, and laid himself 
down at length on the turf. 

‘He did. And what beats me is why he went off 
to live among them messy trees in the Weald, when 
he might ha’ stayed here and looked all about him. 
There’s no profit to trees. They draw the lightning, 
and sheep shelter under ’em, and so, like as not, you’ll 
lose a half score ewes struck dead in one storm. Tck! 
Your father knew that.’ 

‘Trees aren’t messy.’ Una rose on her elbow. 
‘And what about firewood ? I don’t like coal.’ 


126 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Eh? You lie a piece more up-hill and you’ll 
lie more natural,’ said Mr. Dudeney, with his provoking 
deaf smile. ‘Now press your face down and smell 
to the turf. That’s Southdown thyme which makes 
our Southdown mutton beyond compare, and, my 
mother told me, ’twill cure anything except broken 
necks, or hearts. I forget which.’ 

They sniffed, and somehow forgot to lift their cheeks 
from the soft thymy cushions. 

‘You don’t get nothing like that in the Weald. 
Watercress, maybe?’ said Mr. Dudeney. 

‘ But we’ve water — brooks full of it — where you 
paddle in hot weather,’ Una replied, watching a yellow- 
and-violet-banded snail-shell close to her eye. 

‘Brooks flood. Then you must shift your sheep 
— let alone foot-rot afterward. I put more depend¬ 
ence on a dew-pond any day.’ 

‘How’s a dew-pond made?’ said Dan, and tilted 
his hat over his eyes. Mr. Dudeney explained. 

The air trembled a little as though it could not make 
up its mind whether to slide into the Pit or move 
across the open. But it seemed easiest to go down-hill, 
and the children felt one soft puff after another slip 
and sidle down the slope in fragrant breaths that baffed 
on their eyelids. The little whisper of the sea by the 
cliffs joined with the whisper of the wind over the 
grass, the hum of insects on the thyme, the ruffle and 
rustle of the flock below, and a thickish mutter deep 
in the very chalk beneath them. Mr. Dudeney stooped 
explaining, and went on with his knitting. 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 127 

They were roused by voices. The sFadow had 
crept half-way down the steep side of Norton’s Pit, 
and on the edge of it, his back to them, Puck sat 
beside a half-naked man who seemed busy at some 
work. The wind had dropped, and in that funnel 
of ground every least noise and movement reached 
them like whispers up a water-pipe. 

‘That is clever,’ said Puck, leaning over. ‘How 
truly you shape it! ’ 

‘Yes, but what does The Beast care for a brittle 
flint tip? Bah!’ The man flicked something con¬ 
temptuously over his shoulder. It fell between 
Dan and Una — a beautiful dark-blue flint arrow¬ 
head still hot from the maker’s hand. 

The man reached for another stone, and worked 
away like a thrush with a snail-shell. 

‘Flint work is fool’s work,’ he said at last. ‘One 
does it because one always did it, but when it 
comes to dealing with The Beast — no good!’ He 
shook his shaggy head. 

‘The Beast was dealt with long ago. He has gone,’ 
said Puck. 

‘He’ll be back at lambing-time. I know him.’ 
He chipped very carefully, and the flints squeaked. 

‘Not he! Children can lie out on the Chalk now 
all day through and go home safe.’ 

‘ Can they ? Well, call The Beast by his True Name, 
and I’ll believe it,’ the man replied. 

‘Surely!’ Puck leaped to his feet, curved his hands 
round his mouth and shouted: ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ 


128 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

Norton’s Pit threw back the echo from its dry sides — 
‘Wuff! Wuff!’ like Young Jim’s bark. 

‘You see? You hear?’ said Puck. ‘Nobody an¬ 
swers. Grey Shepherd is gone. Feet-in-the-Night 
has run off. There are no more wolves.’ 

‘Wonderful!’ The man wiped his forehead as 
though he were hot. ‘Who drove him away? You?’ 

‘Many men through many years, each working 
in his own country. Were you one of them?’ Puck 
answered. 

The man slid his sheepskin cloak to his waist, 
and without a word pointed to his side, which was 
all seamed and blotched with scars. His arms too 
were dimpled from shoulder to elbow with horrible 
white dimples. 

‘I see,’ said Puck. ‘It is The Beast’s mark. What 
did you use against him?’ 

‘Hand, hammer, and spear, as our fathers did 
before us.’ 

‘So? Then how’ — Puck twitched aside the man’s 
dark-brown cloak — ‘how did a Flint-worker come 
by that ? Show, man, show!’ He held out his 
little hand. 

The man slipped a long broad iron knife, almost 
a short sword, from his belt, and after breathing 
on it, handed it hilt-first to Puck, who took it with 
his head on one side, as you should when you look 
at the works of a watch, squinted down the dark 
blade, and very delicately rubbed his forefinger from 
the point to the hilt. 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 129 

‘Good!’ said he, in a surprised tone. 

‘It should be. The Children of the Night made 
it/ the man answered. 

‘So I see by the iron. What might it have cost 
you ?’ 

‘This!’ The man raised his hand to his cheek 
Puck whistled like a Weald starling. 

‘By the Great Rings of the Chalk!’ he cried. ‘Was 
that your price ? Turn sunward that I may see better, 
and shut your eye.’ 

He slipped his hand beneath the man’s chin and 
swung him till he faced the children up the slope. 
They saw that his right eye was gone, and the eyelid lay 
shrunk. Quickly Puck turned him round again, and 
the two sat down. 

‘It was for the sheep. The sheep are the people/ 
said the man, in an ashamed voice. ‘What else could 
I have done? Tou know, Old One/ 

Puck sighed a little fluttering sigh. ‘Take the 
knife. I listen.’ 

The man bowed his head, drove the knife into 
the turf, and while it still quivered said: ‘This is witness 
between us that I speak the thing that has been. 
Before my Knife and the Naked Chalk I speak. 
Touch!’ 

Puck laid a hand on the hilt. It stopped shaking. 
The children wriggled a little nearer. 

‘I am of the People of the Worked Flint. I am 
the one son of the Priestess who sells the Winds to the 
Men of the Sea. I am the Buyer of the Knife — the 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


*3° 

Keeper of the People/ the man began, in a sort of 
singing shout. ‘ These are my names in this country 
of the Naked Chalk, between the Trees and the Sea/ 

‘Yours was a great country. Your names are great 
too/ said Puck. 

‘One cannot feed some things on names and songs'; 
the man hit himself on the chest. ‘ It is better — always 
better — to count one’s children safe round the fire, 
their Mother among them/ 

‘AhaiP said Puck. ‘I think this will be a very 
old tale/ 

‘I warm myself and eat at any fire that I choose, 
but there is no one to light me a fire or cook my meat. 
I sold all that when I bought the Magic Knife for my 
people. It was not right that The Beast should master 
man. What else could I have done?' 

‘I hear. I know. I listen/ said Puck. 

‘When I was old enough to take my place in the 
Sheepguard, The Beast gnawed all our country like 
a bone between his teeth. He came in behind the 
flocks at watering-time, and watched them round 
the Dew-ponds; he leaped into the folds between our 
knees at the shearing; he walked out alongside the 
grazing flocks, and chose his meat on the hoof while 
our boys threw flints at him; he crept by night into 
/he huts, and licked the babe from between the mother's 
hands; he called his companions and pulled down 
men in broad daylight on the Naked Chalk. No — 
not always did he do so! This was his cunning! 
He would go away for a while to let us forget him. 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 131 

A year—two years perhaps—-we neither smelt, nor 
heard, nor saw him. When our flocks had increased; 
when our men did not always look behind them; when 
children strayed from the fenced places; when our 
women walked alone to draw water — back, back, 
back came the Curse of the Chalk, Grey Shepherd, 
Feet-in-the-Night—The Beast, The Beast, The Beast! 

‘He laughed at our little brittle arrows and our 
poor blunt spears. He learned to run in under the 
stroke of the hammer. I think he knew when there 
Was a flaw in the flint. Often it does not show till 
you bring it down on his snout. Then — Pouf !— 
the false flint falls all to flinders, and you are left 
with the hammer-handle in your fist and his teeth 
in your flank! I have felt them. At evening, too, 
in the dew, or when it has misted and rained, your 
spear-head lashings slack off, though you have kept 
them beneath your cloak all day. You are alone — 
but so close to the home ponds that you stop to tighten 
the sinews with hands, teeth, and a piece of driftwood. 
You bend over and pull — so! That is the minute for 
which he has followed you since the stars went out. 
“Aarh!” he says. “Wurr-aarh!” he says/ (Norton's 
Pit gave back the growl like a pack of real wolves.) 
‘Then he is on your right shoulder feeling for the vein 
in your neck, and — perhaps your sheep run on without 
you. To fight The Beast is nothing, but to be despised 
by The Beast when he fights you — that is like his 
teeth in the heart! Old One, why is it that men 
desire so greatly, and can do so little?’ 


I 3 2 rewards and fairies 

‘I do not know. Did you desire so much?’ said 
Puck. 

‘I desired to master The Beast. It is not right 
that The Beast should master man. But my people 
were afraid. Even my Mother, the Priestess, was 
afraid when I told her what I desired. We were 
accustomed to be afraid of The Beast. When I 
was made a man, and a maiden—she was a Priestess 
—waited for me at the Dew-ponds, The Beast flitted 
from off the Chalk. Perhaps it was a sickness; 
perhaps he had gone to his Gods to learn how to do 
us new harm. But he went and we breathed more 
freely. The women sang again; the children were 
not so much guarded; our flocks grazed far out. I 
took mine yonder’—he pointed inland to the hazy 
line of die Weald—‘where the new grass was best. 
They grazed north. I followed till we were close to 
the Trees’—he lowered his voice — ‘close there where 
the Children of the Night live.’ He pointed north 
again. 

‘Ah, now I remember a thing,’ said Puck. ‘Tel) 
me, why did your people fear die Trees so extremely?’ 

‘Because the Gods hate the Trees and strike them 
with lightning. We can see them burning for days 
all along the Chalk’s edge. Besides, all the Chalk 
knows that the Children of the Night, though they 
worship our Gods, are magicians. When a man goes 
into their country, they change his spirit; they put 
words into his mouth; they make him like talking 
water. But a voice in my heart told me to go toward 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 133 

die north. While I watched my sheep there I save 
three Beasts chasing a man, who ran toward the Trees. 
By this I knew he was a Child of the Night. We 
Flint-workers fear the Trees more than we fear The 
Beast. He had no hammer; he carried a knife like 
this one. A Beast leaped at him. He stretched out 
his knife. The Beast fell dead. The other Beasts 
ran away howling, which they would never have done 
from a Flint-worker. The man went in among the 
Trees. I looked for the dead Beast. He had been 
killed in a new way — by a single deep, clean cut, 
without a bruise or tear, which had split his bad heart. 
Wonderful! So I saw that the man’s knife was magic, 
and I thought how to get it,— thought strongly how 
to get it. 

‘When I brought the flocks to the shearing, my 
Mother the Priestess asked me, “What is the new 
thing which you have seen and I see in your face?” 
I said, “It is a sorrow to me”; and she answered > 
“All new things are sorrow. Sit in my place and eat 
sorrow.” I sat down in her place by the fire, where 
she talks to the ghosts in winter, and two voices spoke 
in my heart. One voice said, “Ask the Children of 
the Night for the Magic Knife. It is not fit that 
The Beast should master man.” I listened to that 
voice. 

‘One voice said, “If you go among the Trees, the 
Children of the Night will change your spirit. Eat 
and sleep here.” The other voice said, “Ask for the 
Knife.” I listened to that voice. 


'34 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘I said to my Mother in the morning, “I go away 
to find a thing for the people, but I do not know whether 
I shall return in my own shape.” She answered, 
“Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am 
your Mother.” 9 

‘True/ said Puck. ‘The Old Ones themselves 
'.annot change men’s mothers even if they would.’ 

‘Let us thank the Old Ones! I spoke to my Maiden, 
die Priestess who waited for me at the Dew-ponds. 
She promised fine things too.’ The man laughed. 
‘I went away to that place where I had seen the magician 
with the knife. I lay out two days on the short grass 
before I ventured among the Trees. I felt my way 
before me with a stick. I was afraid of the terrible 
talking Trees. I was afraid of the ghosts in the 
branches; of the soft ground underfoot; of the red and 
black waters. I was afraid, above all, of the Change. 
It came!’ 

They saw him wipe his forehead once again, and 
his strong back-muscles quivered till he laid his hand 
on the knife-hilt. 

‘A fire without a flame burned in my head; an evil 
taste grew in my mouth; my eyelids shut hot over 
my eyes; my breath was hot between my teeth, and 
my hands were like the hands of a stranger. I was 
made to sing songs and to mock the Trees, though I 
was afraid of them. At the same time I saw myself 
laughing, and I was very sad for this fine young man, 
who was myself. Ah! The Children of the Night 
know magic.’ 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 135 

‘I think that is done by the Spirits of the Mist. 
They change a man if he sleeps among them/ said 
Puck. ‘Had you slept in any mists?’ 

‘Yes — but I know it was the Children of the 
Night. After three days I saw a red light behind 
the Trees, and I heard a heavy noise. I saw the 
Children of the Night dig red stones from a hole, 
and lay them in fires. The stones melted like tallow, 
and the men beat the soft stuff with hammers. I 
wished to speak to these men, but the words were 
changed in my mouth, and all I could say was, “Do 
not make that noise. It hurts my head.” By this 
I knew that I was bewitched, and I clung to the Trees, 
and prayed the Children of the Night to take off their 
spells. They were cruel. They asked me many ques¬ 
tions which they would never allow me to answer. 
They changed my words between my teeth till I wept. 
Then they led me into a hut and covered the floor with 
hot stones and dashed water on the stones, and sang 
charms till the sweat poured off me like water. I 
slept. When I waked, my own spirit — not the 
strange, shouting thing — was back in my body, 
and I was like a cool bright stone on the shingle between 
the sea and the sunshine. The magicians came to 
hear me — women and men — each wearing a magic 
knife. Their Priestess was their Ears and their Mouth. 

‘I spoke. I spoke many words that went smoothly 
along like sheep in order when their shepherd, standing 
on a mound, can count those coming, and those far 
off getting ready to come. I asked for Magic Knives 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


136 

for my people. I said that my people would bring 
meat, and milk, and wool, and lay them in the short 
grass outside the Trees, if the Children of the Night 
would leave Magic Knives for our people to take away. 
They were pleased. Their Priestess said, “For whose 
sake have you come ? ” I answered, “ The sheep are the 
people. If The Beast kills our sheep, our people die. 
So I come for a Magic Knife to kill The Beast.” 

‘She said, “We do not know if our God will let 
us trade with the people of the Naked Chalk. Wait 
till we have asked.” 

‘When they came back from the Question place 
(their Gods are our Gods), their Priestess said, “The 
God needs a proof that your words are true.” I said, 
“What is the proof?” She said, “The God says 
that if you have come for the sake of your people you 
will give him your right eye to be put out; but if you 
have come for any other reason you will not give it. 
This proof is between you and the God. We ourselves 
are sorry.” 

‘I said, “This is a hard proof. Is there no other 
road?” 

‘She said, “Yes. You can go back to your people 
with your two eyes in your head if you choose. But 
then you will not get any Magic Knives for your 
people.” 

‘I said, “It would be easier if I knew that I were 
to be killed.” 

‘She said, “Perhaps the God knew this too. See* 
I have made my knife hot.” 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 137 

‘I said, “Be quick, then!” With her knife heated 
in the flame she put out my right eye. She herself 
did it. I am the son of a Priestess. She was a 
Priestess. It was not work for any common man/ 

‘True! Most true/ said Puck. ‘No common man’s 
work, that. And, afterward ?’ 

‘Afterwards I did not see out of that eye any more. 
I found also that a one eye does not tell you truly where 
things are. Try it!’ 

At this Dan put his hand over one eye, and reached 
for the flint arrow-head on the grass. He missed 
it by inches. ‘It’s true/ he whispered to Una. ‘You 
can’t judge distances a bit with only one eye.’ 

Puck was evidently making the same experiment, 
for the man laughed at him. 

‘I know it is so/ said he. ‘Even now I am not 
always sure of my blow. I stayed with the Children 
of the Night till my eye healed. They said I was the 
son of Tyr, the God who put his right hand in a Beast’s 
mouth. They showed me how they melted their red 
stone and made the Magic Knives of it. They told 
me the charms they sang over the fires and at the beat¬ 
ings. I can sing many charms.’ Then he began to 
laugh like a boy. 

‘I was thinking of my journey home/ he said, ‘and 
of the surprised Beast. He had come back to the 
Chalk. I saw him — I smelt his lairs as soon as 
ever I left the Trees. He did not know I had the 
Magic Knife — I hid it under my cloak — the Knife 
that the Priestess gave me. Ho! Hoi That happy 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


'38 

day was too short! See! A Beast would wind me. 
“Wow!” he would say, “here is my Flint-worker!” 
He would come leaping, tail in air; he would roll; 
he would lay his head between his paws out of merriness 
of heart at his warm, waiting meal. He would leap 
— and, oh, his eye in mid-leap when he saw — when 
he saw the knife held ready for him! It pierced his 
hide as a rush pierces curdled milk. Often he had no 
time to howl. I did not trouble to flay any beasts 
I killed. Sometimes I missed my blow. Then I 
took my little flint hammer and beat out his brains 
as he cowered. He made no fight. He knew the knife! 
But The Beast is very cunning. Before evening all 
The Beasts had smelt the blood on my knife, and were 
running from me like hares. They knew! Then 
I walked as a man should — the Master of The Beast! 

‘So came I back to my Mother’s house. There 
was a lamb to be killed. I cut it in two halves with 
my knife, and I told her all my tale. She said, “This 
is the work of a God.” I kissed her and laughed. 
I went to my Maiden who waited for me at the Dew- 
ponds. There was a lamb to be killed. I cut it in 
two halves with my knife, and told her all my tale. 
She said, “It is the work of a God.” I laughed, but 
she pushed me away, and being on my blind side, 
ran off before I could kiss her. I went to the Men 
of the Sheepguard at watering-time. There was a 
sheep to be killed for their meat. I cut it in two halves 
with my knife, and told them all my tale. They said, 
“It is the work of a God.” I said, “We talk too much 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 139 

about Gods. Let us eat and be happy, and to-morrow 
I will take you to the Children of the Night, and each 
man will find a Magic Knife.” 

‘I was glad to smell our sheep again; to see the 
broad sky from edge to edge, and to hear the sea. 
I slept beneath the stars in my cloak. The men talked 
among themselves. 

‘I led them, the next day, to the Trees, taking with 
me meat, wool, and curdled milk, as I had promised. 
We found the Magic Knives laid out on the grass, 
as the Children of the Night had promised. They 
watched us from among the Trees. Their Priestess 
called to me and said, “How is it with your people ?” 
I said, “Their hearts are changed. I cannot see their 
hearts as I used to.” She said, “That is because you 
have only one eye. Come to me and I will be both 
your eyes.” But I said, “I must show my people 
how to use their knives against The Beast, as you 
showed me how to use my knife.” I said this because 
the Magic Knife does not balance like the flint. She 
said, “What you have done, you have done for the 
sake of a woman, and not for the sake of your people.” 
I asked of her, “Then why did the God accept my 
right eye, and why are you so angry ?” She answered, 
“Because any man can lie to a God, but no man can 
lie to a woman. And I am not angry with you. I am 
only very sorrowful for you. Wait a little, and you 
will see out of your one eye why I am sorry.” So 
Hie hid herself. 

‘I went back with mv people, each one carrying 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


140 

his knife, and making it sing in the air — tssee-sssse . 
The Flint never sings. It mutters — ump-ump. Tha 
Beast heard. The Beast saw. He knew! Every¬ 
where he ran away from us. We all laughed. As 
we walked over the grass my Mother’s brother — the 
Chief on the Man’s side — he took off his Chief’s 
necklace of yellow sea-stones.’ 

‘How? Eh? Oh, I remember! Amber/ said 
Puck. 

‘And would have put them on my neck. I said, 
“No, I am content. What does my one eye matter 
if my other eye sees fat sheep and fat children running 
about safely?” My Mother’s brother said to them, 
“I told you he would never take such things.” Then 
they began to sing a song in the Old Tongue — The 
Song of Tyr. I sang with them, but my Mother’s 
brother said, “This is your song, oh, Buyer of the 
Knife. Let us sing it, Tyr.” 

‘Even then I did not understand, till I saw that — 
that no man stepped on my shadow; and I knew that 
they thought me to be a God, like the God Tyr, who 
gave his right hand to conquer a Great Beast.’ 

‘By the Fire in the Belly of the Flint, was that so ?’ 
Puck rapped out. 

‘By my Knife and the Naked Chalk, so it was! 
They made way for my shadow as though it had been 
a Priestess walking to the Barrows of the Dead. I 
was afraid. I said to myself, “My Mother and my 
Maiden will know I am not Tyr.” But still I was 
afraid with the fear of a man who falls into a steep 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 141 

flint-pit while he runs, and feels that it will be hard 
to climb out. 

‘When we came to the Dew-ponds all our people 
were there. The men showed their knives and told 
their tale. The sheepguards also had seen The Beast 
flying from us. The Beast went west across the river 
in packs — howling! He knew the Knife had come 
to the Naked Chalk at last — at last! He knew! So 
my work was done. I looked for my Maiden among 
the Priestesses. She looked at me, but she did not 
smile. She made the sign to me that our Priestesses 
must make when they sacrifice to the Old Dead in 
the Barrows. I would have spoken, but my Mother’s 
brother made himself my Mouth, as though I had 
been one of the Old Dead in the Barrows for whom 
our Priests speak to the people on Midsummer 
mornings/ 

‘I remember. Well I remember those Midsummer 
mornings!’ said Puck. 

‘Then I went away angrily to my Mother’s house. 
She would have knelt before me. Then I was more 
angry, but she said, “Only a God would have spoken to 
me thus, a Priestess. A man would have feared the 
punishment of the Gods.” I looked at her and I 
laughed. I could not stop my unhappy laughing. They 
called me from the door by the name of Tyr himself. A 
young man with whom I had watched my first flocks, 
and chipped my first arrow, and fought my first Beast, 
called me by that name in the Old Tongue. He asked 
my leave to take my Maiden. His eyes were lowered, 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


142 

his hands were on his forehead. He was full of the fear 
of a God, but of me, a man, he had no fear when he 
asked. I did not kill him. I said, “Call the maiden.” 
She came also without fear — this very one that had 
waited for me, that had talked with me by our Dew- 
ponds. Being a Priestess, she lifted her eyes to me. 
As I look on a hill or a cloud, so she looked at me. 
She spoke in the Old Tongue which Priestesses use 
when they make prayers to the Old Dead in the 
Barrows. She asked leave that she might light the 
fire in my companion’s house — and that I should 
bless their children. I did not kill her. I heard my 
own voice, little and cold, say, “Let it be as you desire,” 
and they went away hand in hand. My heart grew 
little and cold; a wind shouted in my ears; my eye 
darkened. I said to my Mother, “Can a God die?” 
I heard her say, “What is it? What is it, my son?” 
and I fell into darkness full of hammer-noises. I 
was not.’ 

‘Oh, poor — poor God!’ said Puck. ‘And your 
wise Mother ?’ 

‘ She knew. As soon as I dropped she knew. When 
my spirit came back I heard her whisper on my ear, 
“Whether you live or die, or are made different, I am 
your Mother.” That was good — better even than 
the water she gave me and the going away of the 
sickness. Though I was ashamed to have fallen 
down, yet I was very glad. She was glad too. Neither 
of us wished to lose the other. There is only the one 
Mother for the one son. I heaped the fire for her. 


THE KNIFE AND NAKED CHALK 143 

and barred the doors, and sat at her feet as before I 
went away, and she combed my hair, and sang. 

‘I said at last, “What is to be done to the people 
who say that I am Tyr ?” 

‘She said, “He who has done a God-like thing 
must bear himself like a God. I see no way out of 
it. The people are now your sheep till you die. You 
cannot drive them off.” 

‘I said, “This is a heavier sheep than I can lift. ,, 
She said, “In time it will grow easy. In time perhaps 
you will not lay it down for any maiden anywhere. 
Be wise — be very wise, my son, for nothing is left 
you except the words, and the songs, and the worship 
of a God”’ 

‘Oh, poor God!’ said Puck. ‘But those are not 
altogether bad things.’ 

‘I know they are not; but I would sell them all — 
all — all for one small child of my own, smearing him¬ 
self with the ashes of our own house-fire/ 

He wrenched his knife from the turf, thrust it into 
his belt and stood up. 

‘And yet, what else could I have done?’ he said. 
‘The sheep are the people/ 

‘It is a very old tale/ Puck answered. ‘I have 
heard the like of it not only on the Naked Chalk, 
but also among the Trees — under Oak, and Ash, 
and Thorn/ 

The afternoon shadows filled all the quiet emptiness 
of Norton’s Pit. The children heard the sheep bells 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


144 

and Young Jim’s busy bark above them, and they 
scrambled up the slope to the level. 

‘We let you have your sleep out,’ said Mr. Dudeney, 
as the flock scattered before them. ‘It’s making for 
tea-time now.’ 

‘ Look what I’ve found,’ said Dan, and held up a little 
blue flint arrow-head as fresh as though it had been 
chipped that very day. 

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Dudeney, ‘the closeter you be to 
the turf the more you’re apt to see things. I’ve 
found ’em often. Some says the fairies made ’em, 
but I says they was made by folks like ourselves — 
only a goodish time back. They’re lucky to keep. 
Now, you couldn’t ever have slept — not to any profit 
— among your father’s trees same as you’ve laid out 
on Naked Chalk — could you ?’ 

‘One doesn’t want to sleep in the woods,’ said Una. 

‘Then what’s the good of ’em ?’ said Mr. Dudeney. 
’Might as well set in the barn all day. Fetch ’em 
’long, Jim boy!’ 

The Downs, that looked so bare and hot when they 
came, were full of delicious little shadow-dimples; 
the smell of the thyme and the salt mixed together 
on the south-west drift from the still sea; their eyes 
dazzled with the low sun, and the long grass under 
it looked golden. The sheep knew where their fold 
was, so Young Jim came back to his master, and they 
all four strolled home, the scabious-heads swishing 
about their ankles, and their shadows streaking behind 
them like the shadows of giants. 


SONG OF THE MEN’S SIDE 


Once we feared The Beast — when he followed us 
we ran, 

Ran very fast though we knew 
It was not right that The Beast should master Man; 

But what could we Flint-workers do ? 

The Beast only grinned at our spears round his 
ears — 

Grinned at the hammers that we made; 

But now we will hunt him for the life with the 
Knife — 

And this is the Buyer of the Blade! 

Room for his shadow on the grass — let it pass! 

To left and right — stand clear! 

This is the Buyer of the Blade — he afraid! 

This is the great god Tyr! 

Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan, 

For he knew it was not right 
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master 
Man; 

So he went to the Children of the Night. 

He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our 
sake. 


145 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


146 

When he begged for the Knife they said: 

‘The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!’ 
And that was the price he paid. 

Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead — run ahead i 
Shout it so the Women s Side can hear! 

This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid! 

This is the great god Tyr! 

Our women and our little ones may walk on the 
Chalk, 

As far as we can see them and beyond. 

We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep 
Tally at the shearing-pond. 

We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if 
we please, 

We can sleep after meals in the sun; 

For Shepherd of the Twilight is dismayed at the Blade, 
Feet-in-the-Night have run! 

Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!), 
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run! 

Then: 

Room for his shadow on the grass — let it pass) 
To left and right — stand clear! 

This is the Buyer of the Blade — be afraid ! 

This is the great god Tyr! 


Brother Square-Toes 




































































































































































































































PHILADELPHIA 


If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, 

You mustn’t take my stories for a guide. 

There’s little left, indeed, of the city you will read of. 
And all the folk I write about have died. 

Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand, 
Or remember what his cunning and his skill did; 

And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count 
Zinnendorf, 

Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded. 


It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis, 
(Never say I didn’t give you warning). 

In Seventeen Ninety-three ’twas there for all 
to see, 

But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning. 


If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, 

You mustn’t go by everything I’ve said. 

Bob Bicknell’s Southern Stages have been laid 
aside for ages, 

But the Limited will take you there instead. 

Toby Hirte can’t be seen at One Hundred and Eighteea 
North Second Street — no matter when you call; 


149 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


150 

And I fear you’ll search in vain for the wash-house 
down the lane 

Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball. 

It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden, 
(Never say I didn’t give you warning). 

In Seventeen Ninety-four ’twas a famous danc¬ 
ing-floor — 

But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning. 

If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, 

You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel. 

You needn’t try your luck at Epply’s or the ‘Buck/ 
Though the Father of his Country liked them well. 
It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos, 
Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed — so 
You must treat as out of date the story I relate, 

Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so. 

He is gone, gone, gone with Martin Lutlv~ 
(Never say I didn’t give you warning). 

In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) 
alive. 

But he’s not in Philadelphia this morning. 

If you’re off to Philadelphia this morning, 

And wish to prove the truth of what I say, 

I pledge my word you’ll find the pleasant land 
behind 


PHILADELPHIA 


151 

Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way. 

Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the catbird 
sings his tune; 

Still autumn sets the maple-forest blazing. 

Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her 
soul-compelling musk; 

Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing! 

They are there, there, there with Earth irm 
mortal 

(Citizens, I give you friendly warning). 

The things that truly last when men and time* 
have passed, 

They are all in Pennsylvania this morningl 









































































































































BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 


It was almost the end of their visit to the seaside. 
They had turned themselves out of doors while their 
trunks were being packed, and strolled over the 
Downs toward the dull evening sea. The tide was 
dead low under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled 
waves grieved along the sands up the coast to Newhaven 
and down the coast to long, grey Brighton, whose 
smoke trailed out across the Channel. 

They walked to The Gap where the cliff is only 
a few feet high. A windlass for hoisting shingle 
from the beach below stands at the edge of it. The 
Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an 
old ship's figure-head of a Turk in a turban stared at 
them over the wall. 

‘This time to-morrow we shall be at home, thank 
goodness,' said Una. ‘I hate the sea!' 

‘I believe it's all right in the middle,' said Dan, 
‘The edges are the sorrowful parts.' 

Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, 
levelled his telescope at some fishing-boats, shut it 
with a click and walked away. He grew smaller and 
smaller along the edge of the cliff, where neat piles of 
white chalk every few yards show the path even on 
the darkest night. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


154 

‘Where’s Cordery going?’ said Una. 

‘Half-way to Newhaven,’ said Dan. ‘Then he’ll 
meet the Newhaven coastguard and turn back. He 
says if coastguards were done away with, smuggling 
would start up at once.’ 

A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing: 

‘The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye — 

On Telscombe Tye at night it was — 

She saw the smugglers riding by, 

A very pretty sight it was!' 

Feet scrabbled on the flinty path. A dark, thin¬ 
faced man in very neat brown clothes and broad¬ 
toed shoes came up, followed by Puck. 

‘Three Dunkirk boats was standin’ in!* 
the man went on. 

‘Hssh!’ said Puck. ‘You’ll shock these nice young 
people.’ 

‘Oh! Shall I? Mille pardons!’ He shrugged his 
shoulders almost up to his ears — spread his hands 
abroad, and jabbered in French. ‘No comprenny?* 
he i>aid. ‘I’ll give it you in Low German.’ And 
he went off in another language, changing his voice 
and manner so completely that they hardly knew him 
for the same person. But his dark, beady-brown eyes 
still twinkled merrily in his lean face, and the children 
felt that they did not suit the straight, plain, snuffy- 
brown coat, brown knee-breeches and broad-brimmed 
hat. His hair was tied in a short pig-tail which danced 
wickedly when he turned his head. 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 155 

‘Ha’ done!’ said Puck, laughing. ‘Be one thing 
or Pother, Pharaoh. French or English or German 
— no great odds which/ 

‘Oh, but it is, though,’ said Una quickly. ‘We 
haven’t begun German yet, and — and we’re going 
back to our French next week.’ 

‘Aren’t you English?’ said Dan. ‘We heard you 
singing just now.’ 

‘Aha! That was the Sussex side o’ me. Dad 
he married a French girl out o’ Boulogne, and French 
she stayed till her dyin’ day. She was an Aurette, 
of course. We Lees mostly marry Aurettes. Haven’t 
you ever come across the saying: 

'Aurettes and Lees, 

Like as two peas. 

What they can’t smuggle, 

They’ll run over seas ? * 

‘Then, are you a smuggler?’ Una cried; and, ‘Have 
you smuggled much?’ said Dan. 

Mr. Lee nodded solemnly. 

‘Mind you,’ said he, ‘I don’t uphold smuggling 
for the generality o’ mankind — mostly they can’t 
make a do of it — but I was brought up to the trade, 
d’ye see, in a lawful line o’ descent on’ — he waved 
across the Channel — ‘ on both sides the water. ’Twas 
all in the families, same as fiddling. The Aurettes 
used mostly to run the stuff across from Boulogne, 
and we Lees landed it here and ran it up to London 
town, by the safest road.' 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


J5 6 

‘Then where did you live? , said Una. 

‘You mustn’t ever live too close to your business 
in our trade. We kept our little fishing smack at 
Shoreham, but otherwise we Lees was all honest 
cottager folk — at Warminghurst under Washington — 
Bramber way — on the old Penn estate.’ 

‘Ah!’ said Puck, squatted by the windlass. ‘I 
remember a piece about the Lees at Warminghurst, 
Ido: 

* There was never a Lee to Warminghurst, 

That wasn’t a gipsy last and first. 

I reckon that’s truth, Pharaoh.’ 

Pharaoh laughed. ‘Admettin’ that’s true,’ he said, 
‘my gipsy blood must be wore pretty thin, for I’ve 
made and kept a worldly fortune.’ 

‘By smuggling?’ Dan asked. 

‘No, in the tobacco trade.’ 

‘You don’t mean to say you gave up smuggling 
just to go and be a tobacconist!’ Dan looked so 
disappointed they all had to laugh. 

‘I’m sorry; but there’s all sorts of tobacconists,’ 
Pharaoh replied. ‘How far out, now, would you 
call that smack with the patch on her foresail?’ He 
pointed to the fishing-boats. 

‘A scant mile,’ said Puck after a quick look. 

‘Just about. It’s seven fathom under her — clean 
sand. That was where Uncle Aurette used to sink 
his brandy kegs from Boulogne, and we fished ’em 
up and rowed ’em into The Gap here for the ponies 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 157 

to run inland. One thickish night in January of 
’93, Dad and Uncle Lot and me came over from 
Shoreham in the smack, and we found Uncle Aurette 
and the L’Estranges, my cousins, waiting for us in 
their lugger with New Year’s presents from mother’s 
folk in Boulogne. I remember Aunt Cecile she’d 
sent me a fine new red knitted cap which I put on then 
and there, for the French was having their Revolution 
in those days, and red caps was all the fashion. Uncle 
Aurette tells us that they had cut off* their King Louis’ 
head, and, moreover, the Brest forts had fired on an 
English man-o’-war. The news wasn’t a week old. 

‘“That means war again, when we was only just 
getting used to the peace,” says Dad. “Why can’t 
King George’s men and King Louis’ men do on their 
uniforms and fight it out over our heads ?” 

‘“Me too, I wish that,” says Uncle Aurette. “But 
they’ll be pressing better men than themselves to 
fight for ’em. The press-gangs are out already on our 
side: you look out for yours.” 

‘“I’ll have to bide ashore and grow cabbages for 
a while, after I’ve run this cargo; but I do wish” — 
Dad says, going over the lugger’s side with our New 
Year presents under his arm and young L’Estrange 
holding the lantern—“I just do wish that those folk 
which make war so easy had to run one cargo a month 
all this winter. It ’ud show ’em what honest work 
means.” 

‘“Well, I’ve warned ye,” says Uncle Aurette. 
“I’ll be slipping off* now before your Revenue cutter 


i 5 8 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


comes. Give my love to sister and take care o’ the 
kegs. It’s thicking to southward.” 

‘I remember him waving to us and young Stephen 
L’Estrange blowing out the lantern. By the time 
we’d fished up the kegs, the fog came down so thick 
Dad judged it risky for me to row ’em ashore, even 
though we could hear the ponies stamping on the 
beach. So he and Uncle Lot took the dinghy and 
left me in the smack playing on my fiddle to guide 
’em back. 

‘Presently I heard guns. Two of ’em sounded 
mighty like Uncle Aurette’s three-pounders. He didn’t 
go naked about the seas after dark. Then come more, 
which I reckoned was Captain Giddens in the Revenue 
cutter. He was open-handed with his compliments, 
but he would lay his guns himself. I stopped fiddling 
to listen, and I heard a whole skyful o’ French up in 
the fog — and a high bow come down on top o’ the 
smack. I hadn’t time to call or think. I remember 
the smack heeling over, and me standing on the gun¬ 
wale pushing against the ship’s side as if I hoped to 
bear her off. Then the square of an open port, with 
a lantern in it, slid by in front of my nose. I kicked 
back on our gunwale as it went under and slipped 
through that port into the French ship—me and 
my fiddle. 

‘Gracious!’ said Una. ‘What an adventure!’ 

‘Didn’t anybody see you come in?’ said Dan. 

‘There wasn’t any one there. I’d made use of 
an orlop-deck port — that’s the next deck below 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 159 

the gun-deck, which by rights it shouldn’t have been 
open at all. The crew was standing by their guns 
up above. I rolled on to a pile of dunnage in the dark 
and I went to sleep. When I woke, men was talking 
all round me, telling each other their names and sorrows 
just like Dad told me pressed men used to talk in the 
last war. Pretty soon I made out they’d all been hove 
aboard together by the press-gangs, and left to sort ’em- 
selves. The ship she was the Embuscade , a thirty-six 
gun Republican frigate, Captain Jean Baptiste Bom- 
pard, two days out of Le Havre, going to the United 
States with a Republican French Ambassador of the 
name of Genet. They had been up all night clearing 
for action on account of hearing guns in the fog. Uncle 
Aurette and Captain Giddens must have been passing 
the time o’ day with each other off Newhaven, and 
the frigate had drifted past ’em. She never knew 
she’d run down our smack. Seeing so many aboard 
was total strangers to each other, I thought one more 
mightn’t be noticed; so I put Aunt Cecile’s red cap 
on the back of my head, and my hands in my pockets 
like the rest, and, as we French say, I circulated till I 
found the galley. 

‘“What! Here’s one of ’em that isn’t sick!” says 
a cook. “Take his breakfast to Citizen Bompard.” 

‘I carried the tray to the cabin but I didn’t call 
this Bompard “Citizen.” Oh no! “Mon Capitaine” 
was my little word, same as Uncle Aurette used to 
answer in King Louis’ Navy. Bompard, he liked it; 
he took me on for cabin servant, and after that no one 


i6o REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

asked questions; and thus I got good victuals and 
light work all the way across to America. He talked 
a heap of politics, and so did his officers; and when this 
Ambassador Genet got rid of his land stomach and 
laid down the law after dinner, a rook’s parliament 
was nothing compared to their cabin. I learned to 
know most of the men which had worked the French 
Revolution, through waiting at table and hearing talk 
about ’em. One of our forecas’le six-pounders was 
called Danton and t’other Marat. I used to play the 
fiddle between ’em, sitting on the capstan. Day in 
and day out, Bompard and Monsieur Genet talked 
o’ what France had done, and how the United States 
was going to join her to finish off* the English in this 

war. Monsieur Genet said he’d just about make the 
United States fight for France. He was a rude common 
man. But I liked listening. I always helped drink 
any healths that was proposed — specially Citizen 
Danton’s, who’d cut off* King Louis’ head. An 
all-Englishman might have been shocked — but that’s 
where my French blood saved me. 

‘It didn’t save me from getting a dose of ship’s 
fever though, the week before we put Monsieur Genet 
ashore at Charleston; and what was left of me after 
bleeding and pills took the dumb horrors from living 
’tween decks. The surgeon, Karaguen his name 

was, kept me down there to help him with his plasters 
— I was too weak to wait on Bompard. I don’t 
remember much of any account for the next few weeks, 
till I smelled laylocks, and I looked out of the port, and 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 161 

we was moored to a wharf-edge and there was a town 
o’ fine gardens and red-brick houses and all the green 
leaves in God’s world waiting for me outside. 

“‘What’s this?” I said to the sick-bay man—• 
old Pierre Tiphaigne he was. “Philadelphia,” says 
Pierre. “You’ve missed it all. We’re sailing next 
week.” 

‘I just turned round and cried for longing to be 
amongst the laylocks. 

‘“If that’s your trouble,” says old Pierre, “you 
go straight ashore. None’ll hinder you. They’re 
all gone mad on these coasts — French and American 
together. ’Tisn’t my notion o’ war.” Pierre was 
an old King Louis man. 

‘My legs was pretty tottly, but I made shift to 
go on deck, which it was like a fair. The frigate 
was crowded with fine gentlemen and ladies pouring 
in and out. They sung and they waved French 
flags, while Captain Bompard and his officers—yes, 
and some of the men — speechified to all and sundry 
about war with England. They shouted, “Down 
with England!” — “Down with Washington!” — 
“Hurrah for France and the Republic!” / couldn’t 
make sense of it. I wanted to get out from that 
crunch of swords and petticoats and sit in a field. 
One of the gentlemen said to me, “Is that a genuine 
cap o’ Liberty you’re wearing ?” ’Twas Aunt Cecile’s 
red one, and pretty near wore out. “Oh yes!” I says, 
“straight from France.” “I’ll give you a shilling for 
it,” he says, and with that money in my hand and 


i6z 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


my fiddle under my arm I squeezed past the entry-port 
and went ashore. It was like a dream — meadows, 
trees, flowers, birds, houses and people all different! 
I sat me down in a meadow and fiddled a bit, and then 
I went in and out the streets, looking and smelling and 
touching, like a little dog at a fair. Fine folk was 
setting on the white stone doorsteps of their houses, 
and a girl threw me a handful of laylock sprays, 
and when I said “Merci” without thinking, she 
said she loved the French. They was all the fashion 
in the city. I saw more tricolour flags in Philadelphia 
than ever Fd seen in Boulogne, and every one was 
shouting for war with England. A crowd o’ folk was 
cheering after our French ambassador — that same 
Monsieur Genet which we’d left at Charleston. He 
was a-horseback behaving as if the place belonged to 
him — and commanding all and sundry to fight the 
British. But I’d heard that often. I got into a 
long straight street as wide as the Broyle, where gentle¬ 
men was racing horses. I’m fond o’ horses. Nobody 
hindered ’em, and a man told me it was called Race 
Street o’ purpose for that. Then I followed some 
black niggers, which I’d never seen close before; 
but I left them to run after a great, proud, copper¬ 
faced man with feathers in his hair and a red blanket 
trailing behind him. A man told me he was a real Red 
Indian called Red Jacket, and I followed him into an 
alley-way off* Race Street by Second Street, where 
there was a fiddle playing. I’m fond o’ fiddling. The 
Indian stopped at a baker’s shop — Conrad Gerhard’s 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 163 

it was — and bought some sugary cakes. Hearing 
what the price was I was going to have some too, but 
the Indian asked me in English if I was hungry. “Oh 
yes!” I says. I must have looked a sore scrattel. 
He opens a door on to a staircase and leads the way 
up. We walked into a dirty little room full of flutes 
and fiddles and a fat man fiddling by the window, 
in a smell of cheese and medicines fit to knock you 
down. I was knocked down too, for the fat man jumped 
up and hit me a smack in the face. I fell against 
an old spinet covered with pill-boxes, and the pills rolled 
about the floor. The Indian never moved an eyelid. 

‘“Pick up the pills! Pick up the pills!” the fat 
man screeches. 

‘I started picking ’em up—hundreds of 'em — 
meaning to run out under the Indian's arm, but I 
came on giddy all over and I sat down. The fat 
man went back to his fiddling. 

‘“Toby!” says the Indian after quite a while. 
“I brought the boy to be fed, not hit.” 

‘“What?” says Toby, “I thought it was Gert 
Schwankfelder.” He put down his fiddle and took 
a good look at me. “Himmel!” he says. “I have 
hit the wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why 
are you not the new boy ? Why are you not Gert 
Schwankfelder ?” 

‘“I don't know,” I said. “The gentleman in 
the pink blanket brought me.” 

‘Says the Indian, “He is hungry, Toby. Christians 
always feed the hungry. So I bring him.” 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


164 

“‘You should have said that first,” said Toby. 
He pushed plates at me and the Indian put bread 
and pork on them, and a glass of Madeira wine. I 
told him I was off the French ship, which I had joined 
on account of my mother being French. That was 
true enough when you think of it, and besides I saw 
that the French was all the fashion in Philadelphia. 
Toby and the Indian whispered and I went on picking 
up the pills. 

“‘You like pills — eh ?” says Toby. 

“‘No,” I says. “Eve seen our ship’s doctor roll 
too many of ’em.” 

“‘Ho!” he says and he shoves two bottles at me 
“What’s those?” 

‘“Calomel,” I says. “And t’other’s senna.” 

‘“Right,” he says. “One week have I tried to teach 
Gert Schwankfelder the difference between them, 
yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?” he says. 
He’d just seen my kit on the floor. 

“‘Oh yes!” says I. 

‘“Oho!” he says. “What note is this?” drawing 
his bow acrost. 

‘He meant it for A, so I told him it was.’ 

‘“My brother,” he says to the Indian. “I think 
this is the hand of Providence! I warned that Gert 
if he went to play upon the wharves any more he 
would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say 
what you think.” 

‘The Indian looked me over whole minutes — there 
was a musical clock on the wall, and dolls came out 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 165 

and hopped while the hour struck. He looked me 
over all the while they did it.’ 

‘“Good,” he says at last. “This boy is good. ,, 

‘“Good, then,” says Toby. “Now I shall play 
my fiddle and you shall sing your hymn, brother. Boy, 
go down to the bakery and tel] them you are young 
Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in 
Davy Jones’s locker. If you ask any questions you 
shall hear from me.” 

‘I left ’em singing hymns and I went down to old 
Conrad Gerhard. He wasn’t at all surprised when 
I told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder that was. 
He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the 
back yard without a word, and she washed me and she 
cut my hair to the edge of a basin, and she put me to 
bed, and Oh! how I slept — how I slept in that little 
room behind the oven looking on the flower garden! 
I didn’t know Toby went to the Embuscade that night 
and bought me off Dr. Karaguen for twelve dollars 
and a dozen bottles of Seneca Oil. Karaguen wanted 
a new lace to his coat, and he reckoned I hadn’t 
long to live; so he put me down as “discharged 
sick.’” 

‘I like Toby,’ said Una. 

‘Who was he?’ said Puck. 

‘Apothecary Tobias Hirte,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘One 
Hundred and Eighteen, Second Street — the famous 
Seneca Oil man, that lived half of every year among 
the Indians. But let me tell my tale my own way, 
same as his brown mare used to go to Lebanon.’ 


166 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘Then why did he keep her in Davy Jones’s locker ?* 
Dan asked. 

‘That was his joke. He kept her under David 
Jones’s hat shop in the “Buck” tavern yard, and hij 
Indian friends kept their ponies there when they 
visited him. I looked after the horses, when I wasn’t 
rolling pills on top of the old spinet while he played his 
fiddle and Red Jacket sang hymns. I liked it. I had 
good victuals, light work, a suit o’ clean clothes, a 
plenty music, and quiet smiling German folk all around 
that let me sit in their gardens. My first Sunday, 
Toby took me to his church in Moravian Alley; and 
that was in a garden too. The women wore long¬ 
eared caps and handkerchiefs. They came in at one 
door and the men at another, and there was a brass 
chandelier you could see your face in, and a nigger- 
boy to blow the organ-bellows. I carried Toby’s 
fiddle and he played pretty much as he chose all against 
the organ and the singing. He was the only one they 
let do it, for they was a simple-minded folk. They 
used to wash each other’s feet up in the attic to keep 
’emselves humble: which Lord knows they didn’t need.’ 

‘How very queer,’ said Una. 

Pharaoh’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve met many and 
seen much,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t yet found any 
better or quieter or forbearinger people than the 
Brethren and Sistern of the Moravian Church in 
Philadelphia. Nor will I ever forget my first Sunday — 
the service was in English that week — with the smell 
of the flowers coming in from Pastor Meder’s garden 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 167 

where the big peach tree is, and me looking at all the 
clean strangeness and thinking of ’tween decks on the 
Embuscade only six days ago. Being a boy, it seemed 
to me it had lasted for ever, and was going on for ever. 
But I didn’t know Toby then. As soon as the dancing 
clock struck midnight that Sunday — I was lying undef 
the spinet — I heard Toby’s fiddle. He’d just done 
his supper which he always took late and heavy. 
“Gert,” says he, “get the horses. Liberty and Inde¬ 
pendence for ever! The flowers appear upon the earth 
and the time of the singing of birds is come. We are 
going to my country seat in Lebanon.” 

‘I rubbed my eyes, and fetched ’em out of the 
“Buck” stable. Red Jacket was there saddling 
his, and when I’d packed the saddle-bags we three 
rode up Race Street to the Ferry by starlight. So 
we went travelling. It’s a kindly, softly country 
there, back of Philadelphia among the German towns, 
Lancaster way. Little houses and bursting big barns, 
fat cattle, fat women, and all as peaceful as Heaven 
might be if they farmed there. Toby sold medicines 
out of his saddle-bags, and gave the French war-news 
to folk along the roads. Him and his long-hilted 
umberell was as well known as the stage coaches. He 
took orders for that famous Seneca Oil which he had the 
secret of from Red Jacket’s Indians, and he slept 
in friends’ farmhouses, but he would shut all the 
windows: so Red Jacket and me slept outside. There’s 
nothing to hurt except snakes — and they slip away 
rjuick enough if you thrash in the bushes/ 


i68 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘I’d have liked that!’ said Dan. 

‘I’d no fault to find with those days. In the cool 
o’ the morning the cat-bird sings. He’s something 
to listen to. And there’s a smell of wild grape-vine 
growing in damp hollows which you drop into, after 
long rides in the heat, which is beyond compare for 
sweetness. So’s the puffs out of the pine woods of 
afternoons. Come sundown, the frogs strike up, and 
later on the fireflies dance in the corn. Oh me, the 
fireflies in the corn! We were a week or ten days on 
the road, tacking from one place to another — such as 
Lancaster, Bethlehem-Ephrata—“thou Bethlehem- 
Ephrata”—no odds—I loved the going about: 
and so we jogged into dozy little Lebanon by the 
Blue Mountains where Toby had a cottage and a 
garden of all fruits. He come north every year for 
this wonderful Seneca Oil the Seneca Indians 
made for him. They’d never sell to any one else, 
and he doctored ’em with von Swieten pills which 
they valued more than their own oil. He could do 
what he chose with them, and, of course, he tried 
to make them Moravians. The Senecas are a seemly, 
quiet people, and they’d had trouble enough from white 
men — Americans and English — during the wars, 
to keep ’em in that walk. They lived on a Reservation 
by themselve s, away off on their lake. Toby took me up 
there, and they treated me as if I was their own blood 
brother. Red Jacket said the mark of my bare feet in 
the dust was just like an Indian’s and my style of walk¬ 
ing was similar. I know I took to their ways all over ‘ 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 169 

'Maybe the gipsy drop in your blood helped you?* 
said Puck. 

‘Sometimes I think it did,’ Pharaoh went on. ‘Any¬ 
how, Red Jacket and Cornplanter, the other Seneca 
chief, they let me be adopted into the tribe. It’s only 
a compliment, of course, but Toby was angry when 
I showed up with my face painted. They gave me 
a side-name which means “Two Tongues” because, 
d*ye see, I talked French and English. 

‘They had their own opinions (/’ve heard ’em) 
about the French and the English, and the Americans. 
They’d suffered from all of ’em during the wars, and 
they only wished to be left alone. But they thought 
a heap of the President of the United States. Corn- 
planter had had dealings with him in some French 
Wars out West when General Washington was only 
a lad. His being President afterward made no 
odds to ’em. They always called him Big Hand, for 
he was a large-fisted man, and he was all of their notion 
of a white chief. Cornplanter ’ud sweep his blanket 
found him, and after I’d filled his pipe he’d begin —• 
“In the old days, long ago, when braves were man) 

and blankets were few, Big Hand said-” I( 

Red Jacket agreed to the say-so he’d trickle a little 
smoke out of the corners of his mouth. If he didn’t 
he’d blow through his nostrils. Then Cornplanter ’ud 
stop and Red Jacket ’ud take on. Red Jacket was 
the better talker of the two. I’ve laid and listened 
to ’em for hours. Oh! they knew General Washington 
Weil. Cornplanter used to meet him at Epply’s — 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


170 

the great dancing place in the city before District 
Marshal William Nichols bought it. They told me 
he was always glad ^o see ’em, and he’d hear ’em out 
to the end if they had anything on their minds. They 
had a good deal in those days. I came at it by degrees, 
after I was adopted into the tribe. The talk up in 
Lebanon and everywhere else that summer was about 
the French war with England and whether the United 
States ’ud join in with France or make a peace-treaty 
with England. Toby wanted peace so as he could 
go about the Reservation buying his oils. But most 
of the white men wished for war, and they was angry 
because the President wouldn’t give the sign for it. 
The newspaper said men was burning Guy Fawkes 
images of General Washington and yelling after him 
in the streets of Philadelphia. You’d have been 
astonished what those two fine old chiefs knew of the 
ins and outs of such matters. The little I’ve learned 
of politics I picked up from Cornplanter and Red Jacket 
on the Reservation. Toby used to read the Aurora 
newspaper. He was what they call a “ Democrat,” 
though our Church is against the Brethren concerning 
themselves with politics.’ 

‘I hate politics, too,’ said Una, and Pharaoh laughed. 

‘I might ha’ guessed it,’ he said. ‘ But here’s some¬ 
thing that isn’t politics. One hot evening late in 
August, Toby was reading the newspaper on the stoop 
and Red Jacket was smoking under a peach tree and 
I was fiddling. Of a sudden Toby drops his Aurora .* 

‘“Iam an oldish man. too fond of my own comforts,” 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 171 

he says. “I will go to the church which is in Phila¬ 
delphia. My brother, lend me a spare pony. I must 
be there to-morrow night.” 

‘“Good!” says Red Jacket looking at the sun. 
“My brother shall be there. I will ride with him 
and bring back the ponies.” 

‘I went to pack the saddle-bags. Toby had cured 
me of asking questions. He stopped my fiddling if 
I did. Besides, Indians don’t ask questions much, and 
I wanted to be like ’em. 

‘When the horses were ready I jumped up. 

‘“Get off,” says Toby. “Stay and mind the 
cottage till I come back. The Lord has laid this on 
me, not on you. I wish He hadn’t.” 

‘He powders off down the Lancaster road, and 
I sat on the door-step wondering after him. When 
I picked up the paper to wrap his fiddle-strings in I 
spelled out a piece about the yellow fever being in 
Philadelphia so dreadful every one was running away. 
I was scared, for I was fond of Toby. We never said 
much to each other, but we fiddled together; and music’s 
as good as talking to them that understand.’ 

‘Did Toby die of yellow fever?’ Una asked. 

‘Not him! There’s justice left in the world still! 
He went down to the City and bled ’em well again in 
heaps. He sent back word by Red Jacket that, if there 
was war or he died, I was to bring the oils along to the 
city, but till then I was to go on working in the garden 
and Red Jacket was to see me do it. Down at heart, 
all Indians reckon digging a squaw’s business, and 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


172 

neither him nor Cornplanter, when he relieved watch, 
was a hard task-master. We hired a nigger-boy 
to do our work, and a lazy grinning runagate he was. 
When I found Toby didn’t die the minute he reached 
town, why, boylike, I took him off my mind and went 
with my Indians again. Oh those days up north at 
Canasedago, running races and gambling with the 
Senecas, or bee-hunting in the woods, or fishing in the 
lake!’ Pharaoh sighed and looked across the water. 
‘But it’s best/ he went on suddenly, ‘after the first 
frostes. You roll out o’ your blanket and find every 
leaf left green over night turned red and yellow, not 
by trees at a time, but hundreds and hundreds of miles 
of ’em, like sunsets splattered upside down. On one 
of such days — the maples was flaming scarlet and 
gold, and the sumach bushes were redder — Corn- 
planter and Red Jacket came out in full war-dress, 
making the very leaves look silly. Feathered war- 
bonnets, yellow doe-skin leggings, fringed and tasselled, 
red horse-blankets, and their bridles feathered and 
shelled and beaded no bounds. I thought it was war 
against the British till I saw their faces weren’t painted, 
and they only carried wrist-whips. Then I hummed 
“Yankee Doodle” at ’em. They told me they was 
going to visit Big Hand and find out for sure whether 
he meant to join the French in fighting the English 
or make a peace treaty with England. I reckon those 
two would ha’ gone out on the war-path at a nod from 
Big Hand, but they knew well, if there was war ’twixt 
England and the United States, their tribe ’ud catch 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 173 

it from both parties same as in all the other wars. 
They asked me to come along and hold the ponies. 
That puzzled me, because they always put their ponies 
up at the “Buck” or Epply’s when they went to see 
General Washington in the city, and horse-holding 
is a nigger’s job. Besides, I wasn’t exactly dressed 
for it.’ 

‘D’you mean you were dressed like an Indian?’ 
Dan demanded. 

Pharaoh looked a little abashed. ‘This didn’t 
happen at Lebanon,’ he said, ‘but a bit farther north, 
on the Reservation; and at that particular moment of 
time, so far as blanket, hair-band, moccasins and sun¬ 
burn went, there wasn’t much odds ’twix me and a 
young Seneca buck. You may laugh,’ he smoothed 
down his long-skirted brown coat. ‘But I told you 
I took to their ways all over. I said nothing, though 
I was bursting to let out the war-whoop like the young 
men had taught me.’ 

‘No, and you don’t let out one here, either,’ said 
Puck before Dan could ask. ‘Go on, Brother Square- 
toes.’ 

‘We went on.’ Pharaoh’s narrow dark eyes gleamed 
and danced. ‘We went on — forty, fifty miles a day, 
for days on end — we three braves. And how a great 
tall Indian a-horseback can carry his war-bonnet at 
a canter through thick timber without brushing a feather 
beats me ! My silly head was banged often enough by 
low branches, but they slipped through like running 
elks. We had evening hymn-singing every night a ft~r 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


174 

they’d blown their pipe-smoke to the quarters of 
Heaven. Where did we go ? I’ll tell you, but don’t 
blame me if you’re no wiser. We took the old war- 
trail from the end of the Lake along the East Susque¬ 
hanna through the Nantego country, right down to 
Fort Shamokin on the Senachse river. We crossed 
the Juniata by Fort Granville, got into Shippensberg 
over the hills by the Ochwick trail, and then to 
Williams Ferry (it’s a bad one). From Williams 
Ferry, across the Shanedore, over the Blue Mountains, 
through Ashby’s Gap, and so south-east by south 
from there, till we found the President at the back 
of his own plantations. I’d hate to be trailed by 
Indians in earnest. They caught him like a partridge 
on a stump. After we’d left our ponies, we scouted 
forward through a woody piece and, creeping slower 
and slower, at last if my moccasins even slipped Red 
Jacket ’ud turn and frown. I heard voices — Monsieur 
Genet’s for choice — long before I saw anything, 
and we pulled up at the edge of a clearing where 
some niggers in grey and red liveries were holding 
horses, and half-a-dozen gentlemen — but one was 
Genet — were talking among felled timber. I fancy 
they’d come to see Genet a piece on his road, for 
his portmantle was with him. I hid in between two 
logs as near to the company as I be to that old windlass 
there. I didn’t need anybody to show me Big Hand. 
He stood up, very still, his legs a little apart, listening 
to Genet, that French Ambassador, which never had 
more manners than a Bosham tinker. Genet was as 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 175 

good as ordering him to declare war on England at 
once. I had heard that clack before on the Embuscade. 
He said he’d stir up the whole United States to have 
war with England, whether Big Hand liked it or not. 

‘ Big Hand heard him out to the last end. I looked 
behind me and my two chiefs had vanished like smoke. 
Says Big Hand, “That is very forcibly put, Monsieur 

Genet-” “Citizen—-citizen!” the fellow spits 

in. “ /, at least, am a Republican ! 99 “ Citizen Genet,” 
he says, “you may be sure it will receive my fullest 
consideration.” This seemed to take Citizen Genet 
back a piece. He rode off grumbling, and never gave 
his nigger a penny. No gentleman! 

‘The others all assembled round Big Hand then, 
and, in their way, they said pretty much what Genet 
had said. They put it to him, here was France and 
England at war, in a manner of speaking, right across 
the United States’ stomach, and paying no regards to 
any one. The French was searching American ships 
on pretence they was helping England, but really for 
to steal the goods. The English was doing the same, 
only t’other way round; and besides, searching, they 
was pressing American citizens into their navy to help 
them fight France, on pretence that those Americans 
was lawful British subjects. His gentlemen put this 
very clear to Big Hand. It didn’t look to them , they 
said, as though the United States trying to keep out of 
the fight was any advantage to her, because she only 
catched it from both French and English. They said 
that nine out of ten good Americans was crazy to fight 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


176 

the English then and there. They wouldn’t say whether 
that was right or wrong, they only wanted Big Hand 
to turn it over in his mind. He did —for a while. 
I saw Red Jacket and Cornplanter watching him from 
the far side of the clearing, and how they had slipped 
round there was another mystery. Then Big Hand 
drew himself up, and he let his gentlemen have it.’ 

‘Hit ’em?’ Dan asked. 

‘No, nor yet was it what you might call swearing. 
He — he blasted ’em with his natural speech. He 
asked them, half a dozen times over whether the 
United States had enough armed ships for any shape 
or sort of war with any one. He asked ’em, if they 
thought she had those ships, to give him those ships, 
and they looked on the ground, as if they expected 
to find ’em there. He put it to ’em whether, setting 
ships aside, their country — I reckon he gave ’em good 
reasons —whether the United States was ready or able 
to face a new big war; she having but so few years 
back wound up one against England, and being all 
holds full of her own troubles. As I said, the strong 
way he laid it all before ’em blasted ’em, and when 
he’d done it was like a still in the woods after a storm. 
A little man — but they all looked little — pipes up 
like a young rook in a blowed-down nest, “ Nevertheless* 
General, it seems you will be compelled to fight 
England.” Quick Big Hand wheels on him, “And 
is there anything in my past which makes you think 
I am averse to fighting Great Britain?” 

‘Everybody laughed except him. “Oh, General, 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 177 

you mistake us entirely!” they says. “I trust so,” 
he says. But I know my duty. We must have 
peace with England.” 

‘“At any price?” says the man with the rook’s 
voice. 

“‘At any price,” says he word by word. “Our 
ships will be searched — our citizens will be pressed, 
but-” 

‘“Then what about the Declaration of Independ¬ 
ence ?” says one. 

‘“Deal with facts, not fancies,” says Big Hand. 
“ The United States are in no position to fight England.” 

‘“But think of public opinion,” another one starts 
up. “The feeling in Philadelphia alone is at fever 
heat.” 

‘He held up one of his big hands. “Gentlemen,” 
he says — slow he spoke, but his voice carried far —• 
“ I have to think of our country. Let me assure 
you that the treaty with Great Britain will be made 
though every city in the Union burn me in effigy.” 

“‘At any price?” the actor-like chap keeps on 
croaking. 

‘“The treaty must be made on Great Britain’s 
own terms. What else can I do ?” 

‘He turns his back on ’em and they looked at each 
other and slinked off to the horses, leaving him alone: 
and then I saw he was an old man. Then Red Jacket 
and Cornplanter rode down the clearing from the far 
end as though they had just chanced along. Back 
went Big Hand’s shoulders, up went his head and he 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


178 

stepped forward one single pace with a great deep 
Hough! so pleased he was. That was a statelified 
meeting to behold — three big men, and two of ’em 
looking like jewelled images among the spattle of gay- 
coloured leaves. I saw my chiefs’ war-bonnets sinking 
together, down and down. Then they made the sign 
which no Indian makes outside of the Medicine Lodges 
— a sweep of the right hand just clear of the dust and 
an inbend of the left knee at the same time, and those 
proud eagle feathers almost touched his boot-top.’ 

‘What did it mean?’ said Dan. 

‘Mean!’ Pharaoh cried. ‘Why it’s what you — 
what we — it’s the Sachems’ way of sprinkling the 
sacred corn-meal in front of— Oh! it’s a piece of Indian 
compliment really, and it signifies that you are a very 
big chief. 

‘Big Hand looked down on ’em. First he says 
quite softly, “My brothers know it is not easy to be 
a chief.” Then his voice grew. “ My children,” 
says he, “what is in your minds?” 

‘Says Cornplanter, “We came to ask whether 
there will be war with King George’s men, but we 
have heard what our Father has said to his chiefs. 
We will carry away that talk in our hearts to tell to our 
people.” 

‘“No,” says Big Hand. “Leave all that talk 
behind — it was between white men only — but 
take this message from me to your people — ‘There 
will be no war.”’ 

‘jHis gentlemen w$re waiting so they didn’t delay 


BROTHER SQUARE-TOES 179 

him; only Cornplanter says, using his old side-name, 
“Big Hand, did you see us among the timber just 
now ?” 

‘“Surely,” says he. “You taught me to look behind 
trees when we were both young.” And with that he 
cantered off. 

‘Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back 
on our ponies again and a half-hour along the home 
trail. Then Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, “We 
will have the corn dance this year. There will be no 
war.” And that was all there was to it/ 

Pharaoh stood up as though he had finished. 

‘Yes/ said Puck, rising too. ‘And what came out 
of it in the long run ?’ 

‘Let me get at my story my own way/ was the 
answer. ‘Look! It’s later than I thought. That 
Shoreham smack’s thinking of her supper/ 

The children looked across the darkening Channel. 
A smack had hoisted a lantern and slowly moved west 
where Brighton pier lights ran out in a twinkling line. 
When they turned round, The Gap was empty behind 
them. 

‘I expect they’ve packed our trunks by now/ said 
Dan. ‘This time to-morrow we’ll be home/ 








































■ 








































































' 




















































Ilf you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you. 

But make allowance for their doubting too: 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, 

Or being hated don’t give way to hating, 

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream — and not make dreams youT 
master; 

If you can think — and not make thoughts yoiu 
aim, 

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 
And treat those two impostors just the same: 

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 

And lose, and start again at your beginnings 
And never breathe a word about your loss: 





REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


182 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone. 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings - - nor lose the common 
touch, 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you. 

If all men count with you, but none too much: 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my soi 




A Priest in Spite of Himseh 



















































































A ST. HELENA LULLABY 


How far is St. Helena from a little child at play ? 

What makes you want to wander there with all 
the world between ? 

Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run 
away. 

(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!) 

How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street ? 

I haven’t time to answer now — the men are falling 
fast. 

The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to 
beat. 

(If you take the first step you will take the last!) 

How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz ? 

You couldn’t hear me if I told — so loud the cannons 
roar. 

But not so far for people who are living by their wits. 

(‘ Gay go up ’ means ‘ gay go down ’ the wide world 
o er!) 

How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France? 

I cannot see — I cannot tell — the crowns they 
dazzle so. 






x86 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens 
stand up to dance. 

(After open weather you may look for snow /) 

How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar ? 

A longish way — a longish way — with ten year 
more to run. 

It’s South across the water underneath a setting 
star. 

(What you cannot finish you must leave undone /) 

How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice ? 

An ill way — a chill way — the ice begins to crack. 

But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice. 

(When you cant go forward you must e’en come 
hack!) 

How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo ? 

A near way — a clear way — the ship will take 
you soon. 

A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do. 

(Morning never tries you till the afternoon /) 

How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s 
Grace ? 

That no one knows — that no one knows — and 
no one ever will. 

But fold your hands across your heart and covei 
up your face, 

And after all your trapesings, child lie still l 


•A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 


The day after they came home from the sea-side 
they set out on a tour of inspection to make sure 
everything was as they had left it. Soon they dis¬ 
covered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge- 
gaps with stakes and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed 
up the hedges where the blackberries were setting. 

‘It can’t be time for the gipsies to come along,’ 
said Una. ‘Why, it was summer only the other 
day!’ 

‘There’s smoke in Low Shaw!’ said Dan, sniffing. 
‘Let’s make sure!’ 

They crossed the fields toward the thin line of 
blue smoke that leaned above the hollow of Low 
Shaw which lies beside the King’s Hill road. It 
used to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, 
and you can look straight down into it from the edge 
of Banky Meadow. 

‘I thought so,’ Dan whispered, as they came up 
to the fence at the edge of the larches. A gipsy-van — 
not the showman’s sort, but the old black kind, with 
little windows high up and a baby-gate across the 
door — was getting ready to leave. A man was 
harnessing the horses; an old woman crouched over 
| the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; 
187 




i88 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


and a girl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her 
lap. A wise-looking, thin dog snuffed at a patch of 
fur on the ground till the old woman put it carefully 
in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back 
inside the van and tossed her a paper parcel. This 
was laid on the fire too, and they smelt singed feathers. 

‘Chicken feathers!’ said Dan. ‘I wonder if they 
are old Hobden’s.’ 

Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to 
the girl’s feet, the old woman fanned the fire with her 
hat, while the man led the horses up to the shafts. 
They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over 
moss. 

‘Ah!’ said the girl. ‘I’ll teach you!’ She beat 
the dog, who seemed to expect it. 

‘Don’t do that,’ Una called down. ‘It wasn’t his 
fault.’ 

‘How do you know what I’m beating him for?’ 
she answered. 

‘For not seeing us,’ said Dan. ‘He was standing 
right in the smoke, and the wind was wrong for his 
nose, anyhow.’ 

The girl stopped beating the dog, and the old woman 
fanned faster than ever. 

‘You’ve fanned some of your feathers out of the fire/ 
said Una. ‘There’s a tail-feather by that chestnut-tot/ 

‘What of it ?’ said the old woman, as she grabbed it. 

‘Oh, nothing!’ said Dan. ‘Only I’ve heard say 
that tail-feathers are as bad as the whole bird, some¬ 
times.’ 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 189 

That was a saying of Hobden’s about pheasants. 
Old Hobden always burned all feather and fur before 
he sat down to eat. 

‘Come on, mother/ the man whispered. The 
old woman climbed into the van and the horses drew 
it out of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road. 

The girl waved her hands and shouted something 
they could not catch. 

‘That was gipsy for “Thank you kindly, Brother 
and Sister/ ” said Pharaoh Lee. 

He was standing behind them, his fiddle under 
his arm. 

‘Gracious, you startled me!’ said Una. 

‘You startled old Priscilla Savile/ Puck called 
from below them. ‘Come and sit by their fire. She 
ought to have put it out before they left/ 

They dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una 
raked the ashes together, Dan found a dead wormy 
oak branch that burns without flame, and they 
watched the smoke while Pharaoh played a curious 
wavery air. 

‘That’s what the girl was humming to the baby/ 
said Una. 

‘I know it/ he nodded, and went on — 

* Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai! Luludia! 

AiLuludiaP 

He passed from one odd tune to another, and 
quite forgot the children. At last Puck asked him 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


190 

to go on with his adventures in Philadelphia and 
among the Seneca Indians. 

‘Em telling it/ he said, staring straight in front 
of him as he played. ‘Can’t you hear?’ 

‘Maybe, but they can’t. Tell it aloud/ said Puck. 

Pharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, 
and began: 

‘I’d left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home 
with me after Big Hand had said that there wouldn’t 
be any war. That’s all there was to it. We believed 
Big Hand and we went home again — we three braves. 
When we reached Lebanon we found Toby at the 
cottage with his waistcoat a foot too big for him — so 
hard he had worked amongst the yellow-fever people. 
Lie beat me for running off with the Indians, but ’twas 
worth it — I was glad to see him — and when we 
went back to Philadelphia for the winter, and I was 
told how he’d sacrificed himself over sick people in the 
yellow fever, I thought the world and all of him. No 
I didn’t neither. I’d thought that all along. That 
yellow fever must have been something dreadful. 
Even in December people had no more than begun to 
trinkle back to town. Whole houses stood empty 
and the niggers was robbing them out. But I can’t 
call to mind that any of the Moravian Brethren had 
died. It seemed like they had just kept on with their 
own concerns, and the good Lord He’d just looked 
after ’em. That was the winter — yes, winter of 
Ninety-three — the Brethren bought a stove for the 
Church. Toby spoke in favour of it because the cold 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 191 

spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought stove-heat 
not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which 
always brought hickory-coal foot-warmers to service 
and wouldn’t speak either way. They ended by 
casting the Lot for it, which is like pitch and toss. 
After my summer with the Senecas, church-stoves 
didn’t highly interest me, so I took to haunting around 
among the French emigres which Philadelphia was 
full of. My French and my fiddling helped me there, 
d’ye see. They come over in shiploads from France, 
where, by what I made out, every one was killing every 
one else by any means, and they spread ’emselves 
about the city — mostly in Drinker’s Alley and Elfrith’s 
Alley — and they did odd jobs till times should mend. 
But whatever they stooped to, they were gentry and 
kept a cheerful countenance, and after an evening’s 
fiddling at one of their poor little proud parties, the 
Brethren seemed old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and 
Brother Adam Goose didn’t like my fiddling for hire, 
but Toby said it was lawful in me to earn my living 
by exercising my talents. He never let me be put upon. 

‘In February of Ninety-four — No, March it must 
have been, because a new ambassador called Fauchet 
had come from France, with no more manners than 
Genet the old one — in March, Red Jacket came in 
from the Reservation bringing news of all kind friends 
there. I showed him round the city, and we saw 
General Washington riding through a crowd of folk 
that shouted for war with England. They gave him 
ouite rough music, but he looked ’twixt his horse’s 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


192 

ears and made out not to notice. His stirrup brished 
Red Jacket’s elbow, and Red Jacket whispered up, 
“My brother knows it is not easy to be a chief?’* 
Big Hand shot just one look at him and nodded. 
Then there was a scuffle behind us over some one 
who wasn’t hooting at Washington loud enough to please 
the people. We went away to be out of the fight. 
Indians won’t risk being hit.’ 

‘What do they do if they are?’ Dan asked. 

‘Kill, of course. That’s why they have such proper 
manners. Well, then, coming home by Drinker’s 
Alley to get a new shirt which a French Vicomte’s 
lady was washing to take the stiff out of (I’m always 
choice in my body-linen) a lame Frenchman pushes 
a paper of buttons at us. He hadn’t long landed in 
the United States, and please would we buy. Hr 
sure-ly was a pitiful scrattel — his coat half torn off. 
his face cut, but his hands steady; so I knew it wasn’t 
drink. He said his name was Peringuey, and he’d 
been knocked about in the crowd round the Stadt — 
Independence Hall. One thing leading to another 
we took him up to Toby’s rooms, same as Red Jacket 
had taken me the year before. The compliments he 
paid to Toby’s Madeira wine fairly conquered the 
old man, for he opened a second bottle and he told 
this Monsieur Peringuey all about our great stove 
dispute in the Church. I remember Pastor Meder 
and Brother Adam Goose dropped in, and although 
they and Toby were direct opposite sides regarding 
stoves, yet this Monsieur Peringuey he made 'em 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF * 193 

feel as if he thought each one was in the right of it. 
He said he had been a clergyman before he had to 
leave France. He admired at Toby’s fiddling and 
he asked if Red Jacket, sitting by the spinet, was a 
simple Huron. Senecas aren’t Hurons, they’re Iroquois, 
of course, and Toby told him so. Well, then, in due 
time he arose and left in a style which made us feel 
he’d been favouring us, instead of us feeding him. 
I’ve never seen that so strong before — in a man. 
We all talked him over but couldn’t make head or tail 
of him; and Red Jacket come out to walk with me to 
the French quarter when I was due to fiddle at a party. 
Passing Drinker’s Alley again, we saw a naked window 
with a light in it, and there sat our button-selling Mon¬ 
sieur Peringuey throwing dice all alone, right hand 
against left. 

Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, “Look 
at his face!” 

‘I was looking. I protest to you I wasn’t frightened 
like I was when Big Hand talked to his gentlemen. 
I — I 0 nly looked, and I only wondered that even 
those dead dumb dice ’ud dare to fall different from 
what that face wished. It — it was a face! 

‘“He is bad,” says Red Jacket. “But he is a 
great chief. The French have sent away a great chief. 
I thought so when he told us his lies. Now I know.” 

‘ I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call 
round for me afterward and we’d have hymn-singing 
at Toby’s as usual. 

‘“No,” he says. “Tell Toby I am not Christian 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


194 

to-night. All Indian/’ He had those fits sometimes. 
I wanted to know more about Monsieur Peringuey, 
and the emigre party was the very place to find out. 
It’s neither here nor there of course, but those French 
emigre parties they almost make you cry. The men 
that you bought fruit of in Market Street, the hair¬ 
dressers and fencing-masters and French teachers, 
they turn back again by candlelight to what they used 
to be at home, and you catch their real names. There 
wasn’t much room in the wash-house, so I sat on top 
of the copper and played ’em the tunes they called for 
— “Si le Roi m avait donne ,” and such nursery stuff. 
They cried sometimes. It hurt me to take their money 
afterward, indeed it did. And there I found out about 
Monsieur Peringuey. He was a proper rogue, too! 
None of ’em had a good word for him except the Mar¬ 
quise that kept the French boarding-house on Fourth 
Street. I made out that his real name was the Count 
Talleyrand de Perigord — a priest right enough, 
but sorely come down in the world. He’d been King 
Louis’s Ambassador to England a year or two back, 
before the French had cut off King Louis’s head; 
and, by what I heard, that head wasn’t hardly more 
than hanging loose before he’d run back to Paris and 
prevailed on Danton, the very man which did the 
murder, to send him back to England again as Ambas¬ 
sador of the French Republic! That was too much 
for the English, so they kicked him out by Act of 
Parliament, and he’d fled to the Americas without 
money or friends or prospects. I’m telling you the 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 195 

talk in the wash-house. Some of ’em was laughing 
over it. Says the French Marquise, “My friends, 
you laugh too soon. That man will be on the winning 
side before any of us.” 

‘ “ I did not know you were so fond of priests, Mar¬ 
quise,” says the Vicomte. His lady did my washing, 
as Tve told you. 

‘“I have my reasons,” says the Marquise. “He 
sent my uncle and my two brothers to Heaven by the 
little door,” — that was one of the emigre names for 
the guillotine. “He will be on the winning side if 
it costs him the blood of every friend he has in the 
world.” 

‘“Then what does he want here ?” says one of ’em. 
“We have all lost our game.” 

‘“My faith!” says the Marquise. “He will find 
out, if any one can, whether this canaille of a Washing¬ 
ton means to help us to fight England. Genet (that was 
my ambassador in the Embuscade) has failed and gone 
off disgraced; Fauchet (he was the new man) hasn’t 
done any better, but our abbe will find out, and he will 
make his profit out of the news. Such a man does not 
fail.” 

“‘He begins unluckily,” says the Vicomte. “He 
was set upon to-day in the street for not hooting your 
Washington.” They all laughed again, and one 
remarks, “How does the poor devil keep himself? ” 

‘He must have slipped in through the wash¬ 
house door, for he flits past me and joins ’em, cold 
&s ice. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


196 

‘“One does what one can,” he says. “I sell buttons 
And you, Marquise?” 

“‘I ?” — she waves her poor white hands all burned 
— “I am a cook — a very bad one — at your service, 
abbe. We were just talking about you.” 

‘They didn’t treat him like they talked of him. 
They backed off and stood still. 

“‘I have missed something then,” he says. “But 
I spent this last hour playing — only for buttons, 
Marquise — against a noble savage, the veritable 
Huron himself.” 

“‘You had your usual luck, I hope?” she says. 

‘“Certainly,” he says. “I cannot afford to lose 
even buttons in these days.” 

“‘Then I suppose the child of nature does not know 
that your dice are usually loaded, Father Tout-a-tous,” 
she continues. I don’t know whether she meant to 
accuse him of cheating. He only bows. 

“‘Not yet, Mademoiselle Cunegonde,” he says, 
and goes on to make himself agreeable to the rest of 
the company. And that was how I found out our 
Monsieur Peringuey was Count Charles Maurice 
Talleyrand de Perigord.’ 

Pharaoh stopped, but the children said nothing. 

‘You’ve heard of him?’ said Pharaoh. 

Una shook her head. 

‘Was Red Jacket the Indian he played dice with?’ 
Dan asked. 

‘He was. Red Jacket told me the next time we met. 
I asked if the lame man had cheated. Red Jacket 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 197 

said no — he had played quite fair and was a master 
player. I allow Red Jacket knew. Eve seen him, 
on the Reservation, play himself out of everything 
he had and in again. Then I told Red Jacket all I’d 
heard at the party concerning Talleyrand. 

‘“I was right,” he says. “I saw the man’s war- 
face when he thought he was alone. That is why 
I played him. I played him face to face. He is a 
great chief. Do they say why he comes here?” 

‘“They say he comes to find out if Big Hand makes 
war against the English,” I said. 

‘Red Jacket grunted. “Yes,” he says. “He asked 
me that too. If he had been a small chief I should have 
lied. But he is a great chief. He knew I was a chief, 
so I told him the truth. I told him what Big Hand said 
to Cornplanter and me in the clearing — ‘There 
will be no war.’ I could not see what he thought. I 
could not see behind his face. But he is a great chief. 
He will believe.” 

“‘Will he believe that Big Hand can keep his people 
back from war?” I said, thinking of the crowds that 
hooted Big Hand whenever he rode out. 

“‘He is as bad as Big Hand is good, but he is not 
as strong as Big Hand,” says Red Jacket. “When 
he talks with Big Hand he will feel this in his heart. 
The French have sent away a great chief. Presently 
he will go back and make them afraid.” 

‘Now wasn’t that comical? The French woman 
that knew him and owed all her losses to him; the 
Indian that picked him up, cut and muddy on the 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


198 

street and played dice with him; they neither of ’em 
doubted that Talleyrand was something by himself — 
appearances notwithstanding.’ 

‘And was he something by himself?’ asked Una. 

Pharaoh began to laugh, but stopped. ‘The way 
1 look at it,’ he said, ‘Talleyrand was one of just three 
men in this world who are quite by themselves. Big 
Hand I put first, because I’ve seen him.’ 

‘Ay,’ said Puck. ‘I’m sorry we lost him out of Old 
England. Who d’you put second ?’ 

‘Talleyrand: maybe because I’ve seen him too,’ said 
Pharaoh. 

‘Who’s third ?’ said Puck. 

‘Boney — even though I’ve seen him.’ 

‘Whew!’ said Puck. ‘Every man has his own 
weights and measures, but that’s queer reckoning.’ 

‘Boney?’ said Una. ‘You don’t mean you’ve 
ever met Napoleon Bonaparte?’ 

‘There! I knew you wouldn’t have patience with the 
rest of my tale after hearing that! But wait a minute. 
Talleyrand he come round to Hundred and Eighteen 
Second Street in a day or two to thank Toby for his 
kindness. I didn’t mention the dice-playing, but I could 
see that Red Jacket’s doings had made Talleyrand 
highly curious about Indians — though he would call 
him the Huron. Toby, as you may believe, was all 
holds full of knowledge concerning their manners and 
habits. He only needed a listener. The Brethren 
don’t study Indians much till they join the church, 
but Toby knew ’em wild. So evening after evening 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 199 

Talleyrand crossed his sound leg over his game one 
and Toby poured forth. Having been adopted into 
the Senecas I, naturally, kept still; but Toby ’ud call 
on me to back up some of his remarks, and by that 
means, and a habit he had of drawing you on in talk, 
Talleyrand saw I knew something of his noble savages 
too. Then he tried a trick. Coming back from an 
emigre party he turns into his little shop and puts it to 
me, laughing like, that Td gone with the two chiefs on 
their visit to Big Hand. I hadn’t told. Red Jacket 
hadn’t told, and Toby, of course, didn’t know. ’Twas 
just Talleyrand’s guess. “Now,” he says, “my 
English and Red Jacket’s French was so bad that I 
am not sure I got the rights of what the President 
really said to the unsophisticated Huron. Do me the 
favour of telling it again.” I told him every word 
Red Jacket had told him and not one word more. 
I had my suspicions, having just come from an emigre 
party where the Marquise was hating and praising 
him as usual. 

‘“Much obliged,” he said. “But I couldn’t gather 
from Red Jacket exactly what the President said to 
Monsieur Genet, or to his American gentlemen after 
Monsieur Genet had ridden away.” 

‘I saw Talleyrand was guessing again, for Red 
Jacket hadn’t told him a word about the white man’s 
pow-wow.’ 

‘Why hadn’t he?’ Puck asked. 

‘Because Red Jacket was a chief. He told Talley¬ 
rand what the President had said to him and Corn’ 



200 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


planter, but he didn’t repeat the talk, between the white 
men, that Big Hand ordered him to leave behind.’ 

‘Oh!’ said Puck. ‘I see. What did you do?’ 

‘First I was going to make some sort of tale round 
it, but Talleyrand was a chief too. So I said, “As 
soon as I get Red Jacket’s permission to tell that part 
of the tale, I’ll be delighted to refresh your memory, 
abbe.” What else could I have done ? 

i Is that all ?” he says, laughing. “Let me refresh 
your memory. In a month from now I can give you 
a hundred dollars for your account of the conversation.” 

“‘Make it five hundred, abbe,” I says. 

“‘Five, then,” says he. 

“‘That will suit me admirably,” I says. “Red 
Jacket will be in town again by then, and the moment 
he gives me leave I’ll claim the money.” 

‘He had a hard fight to be civil, but he come out 
smiling. 

‘“Monsieur,” he says. “I beg your pardon as 
sincerely as I envy the noble Huron your loyalty. 
Do me the honour to sit down while I explain.” 

‘There wasn’t another chair, so I sat on the button- 
box. 

‘He was a clever man. He had got hold of the 
gossip that the President meant to make a peace treaty 
with England at any cost. He had found out — from 
Genet, I reckon — who was with the President on the 
day the two chiefs met him. He’d heard that Genet 
had had a huff with the President and had ridden off 
leaving his business at loose ends. What he wanted — 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 201 

what he begged and blustered to know — was just the 
very words which the President had said to his gentle¬ 
men after Genet had left, concerning the peace treaty 
with England. He put it to me that in helping him 
to those very words Fd be helping three great countries 
as well as mankind. The room was as bare as the 
palm of your hand, but I couldn’t laugh. 

“‘I’m sorry,” I says, when he wiped his forehead. 
“ As soon as Red Jacket gives permission-’ 

‘“You don’t believe me, then?” he cuts in. 

‘“Not one little, little word, abbe,” I says. “Except 
that you mean to be on the winning side. Remember, 
I’ve been fiddling to all your old friends for months.” 

‘Well, then, his temper fled him and he called me 
names. 

‘“Wait a minute, ci-devant,” I says at last. “I 
am half English and half French, but I am not the half 
of a man. I will tell thee something the Indian told 
me. Has thee seen the President?” 

“‘Oh yes!” he sneers, “I had letters from the Lord 
Lansdowne to that estimable old man.” 

‘“Then,” I says, “thee will understand. The 
Red Skin said that when thee has met the President 
thee will feel in thy heart he is a stronger man than 
thee.” 

‘“Go!” he whispers. “Before I kill thee, go.” 

‘He looked like it. So I left him.’ 

‘Why did he want to know so badly?’ said Dan. 

‘The way I look at it is that if he had known for 
certain that Washington meant to make the peace-treaty 



202 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


with England at any price, he’d ha’ left old Fauchet 
fumbling about in Philadelphia while he went straight 
back to France and told old Danton — ‘‘It’s no good 
your wasting time and hopes on the United States 
because she won’t fight on our side — that I’ve proof 
of!” Then Danton might have been grateful and 
given Talleyrand a job, because a whole mass of things 
hang on knowing for sure who’s your friend and who’s 
your enemy. Just think of us poor shopkeepers, for 
instance.’ 

‘Did Red Jacket let you tell, when he came back?’ 
Una asked. 

‘Of course not. He said, “When Cornplanter 
and I ask you what Big Hand said to the whites you 
can tell the Lame Chief. All that talk was left behind 
in the timber, as Big Hand ordered. Tell the Lame 
Chief there will be no war. He can go back to France 
with that word.” 

‘Talleyrand and me hadn’t met for a long time 
except at emigre parties. When I give him the message 
he just shook his head. He was sorting buttons in the 
shop. 

‘“I cannot return to France with nothing better 
than the word of an unsophisticated savage,” he says. 

‘“Hasn’t the President said anything to you?” I 
asked him. 

‘ “ He has said everything that one in his position ought 
to say, but — but if only I knew what he said to his 
Cabinet after Genet rode off I believe I could change 
Europe — the world, maybe.” 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 203 

‘“Em sorry,” I says. “Maybe you’ll do that with¬ 
out my help.” 

Hie looked at me hard. “Either you have unusual 
observation for one so young, or you choose to be 
insolent,” he says. 

‘“It was intended for a compliment,” I says. “But 
no odds. We’re off in a few days for our summer trip, 
and I’ ve come to make my good-byes.” 

‘“I go on my travels too,” he says. “If ever 
we meet again you may be sure I will do my best to 
repay what I owe you.” 

‘“Without malice, abbe, I hope,” I says. 

“‘None whatever,” says he. “Give my respects 
to your adorable Dr. Pangloss (that was one of his 
side-names for Toby) and the Huron.” I never 
could teach him the difference betwixt Hurons and 
Senecas. 

‘Then Sister Haga came in for a paper of what we 
call “pilly buttons” and that was the last I saw of 
Talleyrand in those parts.’ 

‘But after that you met Napoleon, didn’t you?’ 
said Una. 

‘Wait just a little, dearie. After that, Toby and I 
went to Lebanon and the Reservation, and, being older 
and knowing better how to manage him, I enjoyed 
myself well that summer with fiddling and fun. When 
we came back, the Brethren got after Toby because 
I wasn’t learning any lawful trade, and he had hard 
work to save me from being apprenticed to Helmbold 
and Geyer the printers. ’Twould have ruined our 


204 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

music together, indeed it would; and when we escaped 
that, old Mattes Roush, the leather-breeches maker 
round the corner, took a notion I was cut out for skin¬ 
dressing. But we were rescued. Along toward 
Christmas, there comes a big sealed letter from the 
Bank saying that a Monsieur Talleyrand had put 
five hundred dollars — a hundred pounds — to my 
credit there to use as I pleased. There was a little 
note from him inside — he didn’t give any address —• 
to thank me for past kindnesses and my believing in 
his future which he said was pretty cloudy at the time 
of writing. I wished Toby to share the money. 1 
hadn’t done more than bring Talleyrand up to Hundred 
and Eighteen. The kindnesses were Toby’s. But 
Toby said, “No! Liberty and Independence for ever. 
I have all my wants, my son.” So I gave him a set of 
new fiddle-strings and the Brethren didn’t advise us 
any more. Only Pastor Meder he preached about the 
deceitfulness of riches, and Brother Adam Goose said 
if there was war the English ’ud surely shoot down the 
Bank. / knew there wasn’t going to be any war, but 
I drew the money out, and on Red Jacket’s advice 
I put it into horse-flesh, which I sold to Bob Bicknell 
for the Baltimore stage-coaches. That way, I doubled 
my money inside the twelvemonth.’ 

‘You gipsy! You proper gipsy!’ Puck shouted. 

‘Why not? ’Twas fair buying and selling. Well, 
one thing leading to another, in a few years I had 
made the beginning of a worldly fortune and was in the 
tobacco trade.’ 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 205 

‘Ah!’ said Puck, suddenly. ‘Might I inquire if 
you’d ever sent any news to your people in England — 
or in France ?’ 

‘ O’ course I had. I wrote regular every three months 
after I’d made money in the horse-trade. We Lees 
don’t like coming home empty-handed. If it’s only 
a turnip or an egg, it’s something. Oh yes, I wrote 
good and plenty to Uncle Aurette and — Dad don’t 
read very quickly — Uncle used to slip over Newhaven 
way and tell Dad what was going on in the tobacco 
trade.’ 

T see — 

* Aurettes and Lees — 

Like as two peas. 


Go on, Brother S<J Uare-toes,’ said Puck. Pharaoh 
laughed and went on, 

‘Talleyrand he’d gone up in the world same as 
me. He’d sailed to France again, and was a great 
man in the Government there awhile, but they had 
to turn him out on account of some story about bribes 
from American shippers. All our poor emigres said 
he was surely finished this time, but Red Jacket and 
me we didn’t think it likely, not unless he was quite 
dead. Big Hand had made his peace-treaty with 
Great Britain, just as he said he would, and there was a 
roaring trade ’twixt England and the United States 
for such as ’ud take the risk of being searched by 
British and French men-of-wars. Those two was 
fighting and, just as his gentlemen told Big Hand ’ud 


206 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


happen — the United States was catching it from 
both. If an English man-o’-war met an American 
ship he’d press half the best men out of her, and swear 
they was British subjects. Most of ’em was! If a 
Frenchman met her he’d, likely, have the cargo out 
of her, swearing it was meant to aid and comfort the 
English: and if a Spaniard or a Dutchman met her — 
they was hanging on to England’s coat-tails too — 
Lord only knows what they wouldn’t do! It came 
over me that what I wanted in my tobacco trade was 
a fast-sailing ship and a man who could be French, 
English or American at a pinch. Luckily I could 
lay my hands on both articles. So along toward the 
end of September in the year ’99 I sailed from Phila¬ 
delphia with a hundred and eleven hogshead o’ good 
Virginia tobacco, in the brig Berthe Aurette , named 
after mother’s maiden name, hoping ’twould bring me 
luck, which she didn’t — and yet she did.’ 

‘Where was you bound for?’ Puck asked. 

‘Er — any port I found handiest. I didn’t tell 
Toby or the Brethren. They don’t understand the 
inns and outs of the tobacco trade.’ 

Puck coughed a small cough as he shifted a piece 
of wood with his bare foot. 

‘It’s easy for you to sit and judge,’ Pharaoh cried. 
‘But think o’ what we had to put up with! We spread 
our wings and run across the broad Atlantic like a hen 
through a horse-fair. Even so, we was stopped by 
an English frigate, three days out. He sent a boat 
alongside and pressed seven able seamen. I remarked 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 207 

it was hard on honest traders, but the officer said they 
was fighting all creation and hadn’t time to argue. 
The next English frigate we escaped with no more 
than a shot in our quarter. Then we was chased two 
days and a night by a French privateer, firing between 
squalls, and the dirty little English ten-gun brig which 
made him sheer off, had the impudence to press another 
five of our men. That’s how we reached to the chops 
of the Channel. Twelve good men pressed out of 
thirty-five; an eighteen-pound shot-hole close beside 
our rudder; our mainsail looking like spectacles where 
the Frenchman had hit us — and the Channel crawling 
with short-handed British cruisers. Put that in your 
pipe and smoke it next time you grumble at the price 
of tobacco! 

‘Well, then, to top it off, while we was trying to 
get at our leaks, a French lugger come swooping 
at us out o’ the dusk. We warned him to keep away, 
but he fell aboard us, and up climbed his jabbering 
red-caps. We couldn’t endure any more — indeed 
we couldn’t. We went at ’em with all we could lay 
hands on. It didn’t last long. They was fifty odd 
to our twenty-three. Pretty soon I heard the cutlasses 
thrown down and some one bellowed for the sacre 
captain. 

‘“Here I am!” I says. “I don’t suppose it makes 
any odds to you thieves, but this is the United States 
brig Berthe Aurette.” 

‘“My aunt!” the man says, laughing. “Why 
is she named that?” 



208 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


“‘ Who’s speaking?” I said. ’Twas too dark 
to see, but I thought I knew the voice. 

‘“Enseigne de Vaisseau Estephe L’Estrange,” he 
sings out, and then I was sure. 

‘“Oh!” I says. “It’s all in the family, I suppose, 
but you have done a fine day’s work, Stephen.” 

‘He whips out the binnacle-light and holds it 
to my face. He was young L’Estrange, my full 
cousin, that I hadn’t seen since the night the smack 
sank off Telscombe Tye — six years ago. 

‘“Whew!” he says. “That’s why she was named 
for Aunt Berthe, is it ? What’s your share in her* 
Pharaoh ?” 

“‘Only half owner, but the cargo’s mine.” 

‘“That’s bad,” he says. “I’ll do what I can, buv 
you shouldn’t have fought us.” 

‘“Steve,” I says. “You aren’t ever going to report 
our little fall-out as a fight ? Why, a Revenue cutter 
’ud laugh at it!” 

“‘So’d I, if I wasn’t in the Republican Navy,” he 
says. “But two of our men are dead, d’ye see, and 
I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to the Prize Court at 
Le Havre.” 

‘“Will they condemn my ’baccy?” I asks. 

‘“To the last ounce. But I was thinking more 
of the ship. She’d make a sweet little craft for the 
Navy if the Prize Court ’ud let me have her,” he says. 

‘Then I knew there was no hope. I don’t blame 
him — a man must consider his own interests — but 
nigh every dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 209 

Steve kept on saying, “You shouldn’t have fought 
us.” 

‘Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and 
that being the one time we did want a British ship to 
rescue us, why o’ course we never saw one. My 
cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He 
owned he’d no right to rush alongside in the face o’ 
the United States flag, but we couldn’t get over those 
two men killed, d’ye see, and the Court condemned 
both ship and cargo. They was kind enough not to 
make us prisoners — only beggars — and young L’Es- 
trange was given the Berthe Aurette to re-arm into the 
French Navy. 

‘“I’ll take you round to Boulogne,” he says. 
“Mother and the rest’ll be glad to see you, and you 
can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette. Or 
you can ship with me, like most o’ your men, and have 
a turn at King George’s loose trade. There’s plenty 
pickings,” he says. 

‘Crazy as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. 

‘“I’ve had my allowance of pickings and stealings,” 
I says. “ Where are they taking my tobacco ? ” ’Twas 
being loaded on to a barge. 

‘“Up the Seine to be sold in Paris,” he says. 
“Neither you nor I will ever touch a penny of that 
money.” 

‘“Get me leave to go with it,” I says. “I’ll see 
if there’s justice to be gotten out of our American 
Ambassador.” 

‘“There’s not much justice in this world,” he says, 



210 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


“without a Navy.” But he got me leave to go with 
the barge and he gave me some money. That tobacco 
was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows 
a snatched bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little 
to keep my spirits up, as well as to make friends with 
the guard. They was only doing their duty. Outside 
o’ that they were the reasonablest o’ God’s creatures. 
They never even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, 
by river, along in November which the French had 
christened Brumaire. They’d given new names to all 
the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece 
o’ business as that , they wasn’t likely to trouble ’em- 
selves with my rights and wrongs. They didn’t. 
The barge was laid up below Notre Dame Church 
in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard 
after I’d run about all day from office to office, seeking 
justice and fair dealing, and getting speeches concerning 
liberty. None heeded me. Looking back on it I 
can’t rightly blame ’em. I’d no money, my clothes 
was filthy mucked; I hadn’t changed my linen in weeks, 
and I’d no proof of my claims except the ship’s papers 
which, they said, I might have stolen. The thieves ) 
The doorkeeper to the American Ambassador — for 
I never saw even the Secretary — he swore I spoke 
French a sight too well for an American citizen. Worse 
than that — I had spent my money, d’ye see, and I — 
I took to fiddling in the streets for my keep; and 
— and, a ship’s captain with a fiddle under his arm — 
well, I don't blame ’em that they didn’t believe me. 

‘I come back to the barge one day — late in this 


•A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 21 1 

month Brumaire it was — fair beazled out. Old 
Maingon, the caretaker, he’d lit a fire in a bucket and 
was grilling a herring. 

“‘Courage, mon ami,” he says. “Dinner is served.” 

‘“I can’t eat,” I says. “I can’t do any more. It’s 
stronger than I am.” 

‘“Bah!” he says. “Nothing’s stronger than a man. 
Me, for example! Less than two years ago I was 
blown up in the Orient in Aboukir Bay, but I descended 
again and hit the water like a fairy. Look at me 
now,” he says. He wasn’t much to look at for he’d 
only one leg and one eye, but the cheerfullest soul 
that ever trod shoe-leather. “That’s worse than a 
hundred and eleven hogshead of ’baccy,” he goes on. 
“You’re young, too! What wouldn’t I give to be young 
in France at this hour! There’s nothing you couldn’t 
do,” he says. “The ball’s at your feet — kick it!” 
he says. He kicks the old fire-bucket with his peg-leg. 
“General Buonaparte, for example!” he goes on. 
“That man’s a babe compared to me, and see what 
he’s done already. He’s conquered Egypt and Austria 
and Italy — oh! half Europe!” he says, “and now he 
sails back to Paris, and he sails out to St. Cloud down 
the river here — don't stare at the river, you young 
fool! — and all in front of these pig-jobbing lawyers 
and citizens he makes himself Consul, which is as 
good as a King. He’ll be King, too, in the next three 
turns of the capstan — King of France, England and 
the world! Think o’ that!” he shouts, “and eat 
your herring.” 


212 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


f I says something about Boney. If he hadn’t been 
fighting England I shouldn’t have lost my ’baccy — 
should I ? 

‘“Young fellow,” says Maingon. “You don’t under¬ 
stand.” 

‘We heard cheering. A carriage passed over the 
bridge with two in it. 

‘“That’s the man himself,” says Maingon. “He’ll 
give ’em something to cheer for soon.” He stands at the 
salute. 

‘“Who’s t’other in black beside him?” I asks, 
fairly shaking all over. 

‘“Ah! he’s the clever one. You’ll hear of him 
before long. He’s that scoundrel-bishop, Talleyrand.” 

‘“It is!” I said, and up the steps I went with my 
fiddle, and run after the carriage calling, “Abbe, abbe!” 

‘A soldier knocked the wind out of me with the 
back of his sword, but I had sense to keep on following 
till the carriage stopped — and there just was a crowd 
round the house-door! I must have been half-crazy 
else I wouldn’t have struck up “Si le Roi m avalt donne , 
Paris la grande ville!” I thought it might remind him. 

‘“That is a good omen!” he says to Boney sitting 
all hunched up; and he looks straight at me. 

‘ “ Abbe — oh, abbe! ” I says. “ Don’t you remember 
Toby and Hundred and Eighteen Second Street?” 

‘ He said not a word. He just crooked his long white 
finger to the guard at the door while the carriage steps 
were let down, and I skipped into the house, and they 
slammed the door in the crowd’s face. 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 213 

‘“You go there,” says a soldier, and shoves me 
into an empty room, where I catched my first breath 
since I’d left the barge. Presently I heard plates 
rattling next door — there were only folding doors 
between — and a cork drawn. “I tell you,” some one 
shouts with his mouth full, “it was all that sulky ass 
Sieyes’ fault. Only my speech to the Five Hundred 
saved the situation.” 

‘“Did it save your coat?” says Talleyrand. “1 
hear they tore it when they threw you out. Don’t 
gasconnade to me. You may be in the road of victory, 
but you aren’t there yet.” 

‘Then I guessed t’other man was Boney. He 
stamped about and swore at Talleyrand. 

‘“You forget yourself, Consul,” says Talleyrand, 
“or rather you remember yourself—Corsican.” 

‘“Pig!” says Boney, and worse. 

‘“Emperor!” says Talleyrand, but, the way he spoke, 
it sounded worst of all. Some one must have backed 
against the folding doors, for they flew open and showed 
me in the middle of the room. Boney whipped out 
his pistol before I could stand up. “General,” says 
Talleyrand to him, “this gentleman has a habit of 
catching us canaille en deshabille. Put that thing down.” 

‘Boney laid it on the table, so I guessed which was 
master. Talleyrand takes my hand — “Charmed to 
see you again, Candide,” he says. “How is the 
adorable Dr. Pangloss and the noble Huron?” 

‘“They were doing very well when I left,” I said. 
“But Pm not.” 



214 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘“Do you sell buttons now?” he says, and fills me 
a glass of wine off the table. 

‘“Madeira,” says he. “Not so good as some I 
have drunk/’ 

“‘You mountebank!” Boney roars. “Turn that 
out.” (He didn’t even say “man,” but Talleyrand 
being gentle born, just went on.) 

‘“Pheasant is not so good as pork,” he says. “You 
will find some at that table if you will do me the honour 
to sit down. Pass him a clean plate, General.” And, 
as true as I’m here, Boney slid a plate along just like 
a sulky child. He was a lanky-haired, yellow-skinned, 
little man, as nervous as a cat — and as dangerous. 
I could feel that. 

“‘And now,” said Talleyrand, crossing his game leg 
over his sound one. “Will you tell me your story?” 

‘I was in a fluster, but I told him nearly everything 
from the time he left me the five hundred dollars in 
Philadelphia up to my losing ship and cargo at Le 
Havre. Boney began by listening, but after a bit he 
dropped into his own thoughts and looked at the crowd 
sideways through the front-room curtains. Talleyrand 
called to him when I’d done. 

“‘Eh? What we need now,” says Boney, “is 
peace for the next three or four years.” 

‘“Quite so,” says Talleyrand. “Meantime I want 
the Consul’s order to the Prize Court at Le Havre 
to restore my friend here his ship.” 

‘“Nonsense!” says Boney. “Give away an oak- 
built brig of two hundred and seven tons for sentiment ? 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF ’ 215 

Certainly not! She must be armed into my Navy 
with ten — no, fourteen twelve-pounders and two long 
fours. Is she strong; enough to bear a long twelve 
forward ?” 

‘Now I could ha’ sworn he’d paid no heed to my 
talk, but that wonderful head-piece of his seemingly 
skimmed off every word of it that was useful to him. 

“‘Ah, General!” says Talleyrand. “You are a 
magician — a magician without morals. But the brig 
is undoubtedly American, and we don’t want to offend 
them more than we have.” 

“‘Need anybody talk about the affair?” he says. 
He didn’t look at me, but I knew what was in his 
mind—just cold murder because I worried him: 
and he’d order it as easy as ordering his carriage! 

“‘You can’t stop ’em,” I said. “There’s twenty- 
two other men besides me.” I felt a little more ’ud 
set me screaming like a wired hare. 

‘“Undoubtedly American,” Talleyrand goes on. 
“You would gain something if you returned the ship — 
with a message of fraternal good-will — published in 
the Moniteur ” (that’s a French paper like the Phila¬ 
delphia Aurora). 

“‘A good idea!” Boney answers. “One could 
say much in a message.” 

‘“It might be useful,” says Talleyrand. “Shall 
I have the message prepared?” He wrote something 
in a little pocket ledger. 

‘“Yes —for me to embellish this evening. The 
Moniteur will publish if to-night.” 



2l6 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘“Certainly. Sign, please,” says Talleyrand, tear¬ 
ing the leaf out. 

‘ “ But that’s the order to return the brig,” says Boney. 
“Is that necessary? Why should I lose a good ship? 
Haven’t I lost enough ships already ?” 

‘Talleyrand didn’t answer any of those questions. 
Then Boney sidled up to the table and jabs his pen 
into the ink. Then he shies at the paper again: 
“My signature alone is useless,” he says. “You 
must have the other two Consuls as well. Sieyes 
and Roger Ducos must sign. We must preserve 
the Laws.” 

‘“By the time my friend presents it,” says Talley¬ 
rand, still looking out of the window, “only one signa- 
ture will be necessary.” 

‘Boney smiles. “It’s a swindle,” says he, but he 
signed and pushed the paper across. 

“‘Give that to the President of the Prize Court at 
Le Havre,” says Talleyrand, “and he will give you 
back your ship. I will settle for the cargo myself. 
You have told me how much it cost. What profit 
did you expect to make on it ?” 

‘Well, then, as man to man, I was bound to warn 
him that I’d set out to run it into England without 
troubling the Revenue, and so I couldn’t rightly set 
bounds to my profits.’ 

‘I guessed that all along,’ said Puck. 


* There was never a Lee to Warminghurst -»*- 
That wasn’t a smuggler last and first/ 


‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’ 217 

The children laughed. 

‘It’s comical enough now/ said Pharaoh. ‘But 
I didn’t laugh then. Says Talleyrand after a minute, 
“ I am a bad accountant and I have several calculations 
on hand at present. Shall we say twice the cost of 
the cargo ? ” 

‘Say? I couldn’t say a word. I sat choking and 
nodding like a China image while he wrote an order 
to his secretary to pay me, I won’t say how much, 
becuuse you wouldn’t believe it. 

“‘Oh! Bless you, abbe! God bless you!” I got 
it out at last. 

‘“Yes,” he says, “I am a priest in spite of myself, 
but they call me bishop now. Take this for my 
episcopal blessing,” and he hands me the paper. 

“‘He stole all that money from me,” says Boney 
over my shoulder. “A Bank of France is another 
of the things we must make. Are you mad?” he 
shouts at Talleyrand. 

‘“Quite,” says Talleyrand, getting up. “But be 
calm; the disease will never attack you. It is called 
gratitude. This gentleman found me in the street and 
fed me when I was hungry.” 

‘“I see; and he has made a fine scene of it and you 
have paid him, I suppose. Meantime, France waits.” 

‘“Oh! poor France!” says Talleyrand. “Good¬ 
bye, Candide,” he says to me. “By the way,” he 
says, “have you yet got Red Jacket’s permission to 
tell me what the President said to his Cabinet after 
Monsieur Genet rode away?” 


218 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘I couldn’t speak, I could only shake my head, and 
Boney — so impatient he was to go on with his doings — 
he ran at me and fair pushed me out of the room. 
And that was all there was to it/ 

Pharaoh stood up and slid his fiddle into one of his 
big skirt-pockets as though it were a dead hare. 

‘Oh! but we want to know lots and lots more/ said 
Dan. ‘ How you got home — and what old Maingon 
said on the barge — and wasn’t your cousin surprised 

when he had to give back the Berthe Aurette , and-* 

‘Tell us more about Toby!’ cried Una. 

‘Yes, and Red Jacket/ said Dan. 

‘Won’t you tell us any more?’ they both pleaded. 
Puck kicked the oak branch on the fire, till it sent 
up a column of smoke that made them sneeze. When 
they had finished, the Shaw was empty except for old 
Hobden stamping through the larches. 

‘They gipsies have took two/ he said. ‘My black 
pullet and my liddle gingy-speckled cockrel/ 

‘I thought so/ said Dan, picking up one tail-feather 
the old woman had overlooked. 

‘Which way did they go? Which way did the 
runagates go ?’ said Hobden. 

‘Hobby!’ said Una. ‘Would you like it if we told 
Keeper Ridley all your goings and comings ?’ 


‘POOR HONEST MEN’ 


Your jar of Virginny 
Will cost you a guinea 

Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten; 
But light your churchwarden 
And judge it according 

When IVe told you the troubles of poor honest men. 

From the Capes of the Delaware, 

As you are well aware, 

We sail with tobacco for England — but then, 

Our own British cruisers, 

They watch us come through, sirs, 

And they press half a score of us poor honest men, 

Or if by quick sailing 
(Thick weather prevailing) 

We leave them behind (as we do now and then) 

We are sure of a gun from 
Each frigate we run from, 

Which is often destruction to poor honest men! 

Broadsides the Atlantic 
We tumble short-handed, 

With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend, 


219 


220 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


And off the Azores, 

Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs 

Are waiting to terrify poor honest men. 

Napoleon’s embargo 
Is laid on all cargo 

Which comfort or aid to King George may intend; 
And since roll, twist and leaf, 

Of all comforts is chief, 

They try for to steal it from poor honest men l 

With no heart for fight, 

We take refuge in flight 

But fire as we run, our retreat to defend, 

Until our stern-chasers 
Cut up her fore-braces, 

And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men! 

Twix’ the Forties and Fifties, 

South-eastward the drift is, 

And so, when we think we are making Land’s End, 

Alas, it is Ushant 

With half the King’s Navy, 

Blockading French ports against poor honest men! 

But they may not quit station 
(Which is our salvation) 

So swiftly we stand to the Nor’ard again; 

And finding the tail of 
A homeward bound convoy, 

We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men 


‘ POOR HONEST MEN’ 


221 


Twix’ the Lizard and Dover, 

We hand our stuff over, 

Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when; 

But a light on each quarter 

Low down on the water 

Is well understanded by poor honest men! 

Even then we have dangers, 

From meddlesome strangers, 

Who spy on our business and are not content 
To take a smooth answer, 

Except with a handspike. . . 

And they say they are murdered by poor honest men! 

To be drowned or be shot 
Is our natural lot, 

Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end — 
After all our great pains 
For to dangle in chains 

As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men ? 












The Conversion of St. Wilfrid 











EDDI’S SERVICE 


Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid 
In the chapel at Manhood End, 

Ordered a midnight service 
For such as cared to attend. 

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas, 
And the night was stormy as well. 

Nobody came to service 

Though Eddi rang the bell. 

4 Wicked weather for walking/ 

Said Eddi of Manhood End. 

4 But I must go on with the service 
For such as care to attend/ 

The altar candles were lighted,— 

An old marsh donkey came, 

Bold as a guest invited, 

And stared at the guttering flame. 

The storm beat on at the windows, 

The water splashed on the floor, 

And a wet yoke-weary bullock 
Pushed in through the open door. 

225 


126 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘How do I know what is greatest, 

How do I know what is least ? 

That is My Father’s business,’ 

Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest. 

‘ But, three are gathered together — 

Listen to me and attend. 

I bring good news, my brethren!’ 

Said Eddi of Manhood End. 

And he told the Ox of a manger 
And a stall in Bethlehem, 

And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider, 

That rode to Jerusalem. 

They steamed and dripped in the chance^ 
They listened and never stirred, 

While, just as though they were Bishops, 
Eddi preached them The Word. 

Till the gale blew off on the marshes 
And the windows showed the day, 

And the Ox and the Ass together 
Wheeled and clattered away. 

And when the Saxons mocked him, 

Said Eddi of Manhood End, 

T dare not shut His chapel 
On such as care to attend/ 


THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 


They had bought peppermints up at the village, 
and were coming home past little St. Barnabas’s 
church, when they saw Jimmy Kidbrooke, the car¬ 
penter’s baby, kicking at the churchyard gate, with 
a shaving in his mouth and the tears running down 
his cheeks. 

Una pulled out the shaving and put in a pepper¬ 
mint. Jimmy said he was looking for his grand- 
daddy — he never seemed to take much notice of his 
father — so they went up between the old graves, 
under the leaf-dropping limes, to the porch, where 
Jim trotted in, looked about the empty church, and 
screamed like a gate-hinge. 

Young Sam Kidbrooke’s voice came from the bell- 
tower, and made them jump. 

‘Why, Jimmy,’ he called, ‘what are you doin’ here? 
Fetch him, Father!’ 

Old Mr. Kidbrooke stumped downstairs, jerked 
Jimmy on to his shoulder, stared at the children 
beneath his brass spectacles, and stumped back 
again. They laughed: it was so exactly like Mr. 
Kidbrooke. 

‘It’s all right,’ Una called up the stairs. ‘We 
found him, Sam. Does his mother know?’ 


227 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


228 

‘He’s come off by himself. She’ll be jusr about 
crazy,’ Sam answered. 

‘Then I’ll run down street and tell her.’ Una 
darted off. 

‘Thank you, Miss Una. Would you like to see 
how we’re mendin’ the bell-beams, Mus’ Dan?’ 

Dan hopped up, and saw young Sam lying on his 
stomach in a most delightful place among beams 
and ropes, close to the five great bells. Old Mr. 
Kidbrooke on the floor beneath was planing a piece | 
of wood, and Jimmy was eating the shavings as fast 
as they came away. He never looked at Jimmy; 
Jimmy never stopped eating; and the broad gilt- 
bobbed pendulum of the church clock never stopped 
swinging across the white-washed wall of the tower. 

Dan winked through the sawdust that fell on his 
up-turned face. ‘Ring a bell,’ he called. 

‘I mustn’t do that, but I’ll buzz one of ’em a bit 
for you,’ said Sam. He pounded on the sound-bow 
of the biggest bell, and waked a hollow groaning 
boom that ran up and down the tower like creepy 
feelings down your back. Just when it almost began 
to hurt, it died away in a hurry of beautiful sorrow¬ 
ful cries, like a wine-glass rubbed with a wet finger. 
The pendulum clanked — one loud clank to each 
silent swing. 

Dan heard Una return from Mrs. Kidbrooke’s, 
and ran down to fetch her. She was standing by 
the font staring at some one who kneeled at the altar 
tail. 




THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 229 

‘Is that the lady who practises the organ?’ she 
whispered. 

‘No. She’s gone into the organ-place. Besides, 
she wears black,’ Dan replied. 

The figure rose and came down the nave. It was 
a white-haired man in a long white gown with a sort 
of scarf looped low on the neck, one end hanging over 
his shoulder. His loose long sleeves were embroid¬ 
ered with gold, and a deep strip of gold embroidery 
waved and sparkled round the hem of his gown. 

‘Go and meet him,’ said Puck’s voice behind the 
font. ‘It’s only Wilfrid.’ 

‘Wilfrid who?’ said Dan. ‘You come along too.’ 

‘Wilfrid—Saint of Sussex, and Archbishop of 
York. I shall wait till he asks me.’ He waved them 
forward. Their feet squeaked on the old grave slabs 
in the centre aisle. The Archbishop raised one hand 
with a pink ring on it, and said something in Latin. 
He was very handsome, and his thin face looked almost 
as silvery as his thin circle of hair. 

‘Are you alone?’ he asked. 

‘Puck’s here, of course,’ said Una. ‘Do you kno^ 
him ?’ 

‘I know him better now than I used to.’ He beck 
oned over Dan’s shoulder, and spoke again in Latin. 
Puck pattered forward, holding himself as straight a & 
an arrow. The Archbishop smiled. 

‘Be welcome,’ said he. ‘Be very welcome.’ 

‘Welcome to you also, O Prince of the Church/ 
Puck replied. The Archbishop bowed his head and 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


230 

passed on, till he glimmered like a white moth in the 
shadow by the font. 

‘He does look awfully princely/ said Una. ‘Isn’t 
he coming back?’ 

‘Oh yes. He’s only looking over the church. He’s 
very fond of churches/ said Puck. ‘What’s that?’ 

The Lady who practises the organ was speaking 
to the blower-boy behind the organ-screen. ‘We 
can’t very well talk here/ Puck whispered. ‘Let’s 
go to Panama Corner.’ 

He led them to the end of the south aisle, where there 
is a slab of iron which says in queer, long-tailed letters: 
Orate p. annema Jhone Coline. The children always 
called it Panama Corner. 

The Archbishop moved slowly about the little 
church, peering at the old memorial tablets, and the 
new glass windows. The Lady who practises the 
organ began to pull out stops and rustle hymnbooks 
behind the screen. 

‘I hope she’ll do all the soft lacey tunes — like 
treacle on porridge/ said Una. 

‘I like the trumpety ones best/ said Dan. ‘Oh, 
look at Wilfrid! He’s trying to shut the altar gates!’ 

‘Tell him he mustn’t/ said Puck, quite seriously. 

‘He can’t, anyhow/ Dan muttered, and tiptoed 
out of Panama Corner while the Archbishop patted 
and patted at the carved gates that always sprang 
open again beneath his hand. 

‘That’s no use, sir/ Dan whispered. ‘Old Mr. 
Kidbrooke says altar-gates are just the one pair ol 



THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 231 

gates which no man can shut. He made ’em so 
himself.’ 

The Archbishop’s blue eyes twinkled. Dan saw 
that he knew all about it. 

‘I beg your pardon,’ Dan stammered—very angry 
with Puck. 

‘Yes, I know! He made them so Himself.* The 
Archbishop smiled, and crossed to Panama Corner, 
where Una dragged up a certain padded arm-chair 
for him to sit on. 

The organ played softly. ‘What does that music 
say?’ he asked. 

Una dropped into the chant without thinking: 
‘ “Oh, all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; 
praise him and magnify him for ever.” We call it 
the Noah’s Ark, because it’s all lists of things — beasts 
and birds and whales, you know.’ 

‘Whales?’ said the Archbishop quickly. 

‘Yes — “O ye whales, and all that move in the 
waters,”’ Una hummed—“‘Bless ye the Lord”—• 
it sounds like a wave turning over, doesn’t it?’ 

‘Holy Father,’ said Puck with a demure face, ‘is 
a little seal also “one who moves in the water” ?’ 

‘Eh? Oh yes—yess!’ he laughed. ‘A seal moves 
wonderfully in the waters. Do the seal come to my 
island still?’ 

Puck shook his head. ‘All those little islands 
have been swept away.’ 

‘Very possible. The tides ran fiercely down there. 
Do you know the land of the Sea-calf, maiden!’ 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


232 

‘No — but we’ve seen seals — at Brighton.’ 

‘The Archbishop is thinking of a little farthei 
down the coast. He means Seal’s Eye — Selsea — 
down Chichester way — where he converted the South 
Saxons,’ Puck explained. 

‘Yes—yess; if the South Saxons did not convert 
me,’ said the Archbishop, smiling. ‘The first time 
I was wrecked was on that coast. As our ship took 
ground and we tried to push her off, an old fat fellow, 
I remember, reared breast high out of the water, and 
scratched his head with his flipper as if he were saying 
“What does that respectable person with the pole think 
he is doing?” I was very wet and miserable, but 1 
could not help laughing, till the natives came down 
and attacked us.’ 

‘What did you do?’ Dan asked. 

‘One couldn’t very well go back to France, so one 
tried to make them go back to the shore. All the 
South Saxons are born wreckers, like my own North¬ 
umbrian folk. I was bringing over a few things for 
my old church at York, and some of the natives laid 
hands on them, and — and I’m afraid I lost my temper.’ 

‘It is said,’ Puck’s voice was wickedly meek, ‘that 
there was a great fight.’ 

‘Eh, but I must ha’ been a silly lad.’ Wilfrid 
spoke with a sudden thick burr in his voice. He 
coughed, and took up his silvery tones again. ‘There 
was no fight really. My men thumped a few of them, 
but the tide rose half an hour before its time, with a 
strong wind, and we backed off. What I wanted to 




THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 233 

say, though, was, that the seas about us were full of 
sleek seals watching the scuffle. My good Eddi — 
my chaplain — insisted that they were demons. Yes 
— yess! That was my first acquaintance with the 
South Saxons and their seals.’ 

‘But not the only time you were wrecked, was 
it?’ said Dan. 

‘Alas, no! On sea and land my life seems to have 
been one long shipwreck.’ He looked at the Jhone 
Coline slab as old Hobden sometimes looks into the 
fire. ‘Ah, well!’ 

‘But did you ever have any more adventures among 
the seals ?’ said Una, after a pause. 

‘Oh, the seals! I beg your pardon. They are 
the important things. Yes—yess! I went back 
to the South Saxons after twelve — fifteen years. 
No, I did not come by water, but overland from my 
own Northumbria, to see what I could do. It’s little 
one can do with that class of native except make them 
stop killing each other and themselves-’ 

‘Why did they kill themselves?’ Una asked, her 
chin in her hand. 

‘ Because they were heathen. When they grew 
tired of life (as if they were the only people!) they 
v/ould jump into the sea. They called it going to 
vVotan. It wasn’t want of food always — by any 
means. A man would tell you that he felt grey in 
the heart, or a woman would say that she saw nothing 
but long days in front of her; and they’d saunter 
away to the mud-flats and — that would be the end 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


234 

of them, poor souls, unless one headed them off! One 
had to run quick, but one can’t allow people to lay 
hands on themselves because they happen to feel grey. 
Yes —yess! Extraordinary people, the South Saxons. 
Disheartening, sometimes. . . . What does that 

say now ?’ The organ had changed tune again. 

‘Only a hymn for next Sunday,’ said Una. ‘“The 
Church’s One Foundation.” Go on, please, about 
running over the mud. I should like to have seen 
you.’ 

‘I dare say you would, and I really could run in 
those days. Ethelwalch the king gave me some five 
or six muddy parishes by the sea, and the first time 
my good Eddi and I rode there we saw a man slouch¬ 
ing along the slob, among the seals at Manhood End. 
My good Eddi disliked seals — but he swallowed his 
objections and ran like a hare.’ 

‘Why?’ said Dan. 

‘For the same reason that I did. We thought it 
was one of our people going to drown himself. As 
a matter of fact, Eddi and I were nearly drowned in 
the pools before we overtook him. To cut a long story 
short, we found ourselves very muddy, very breath¬ 
less, being quietly made fun of in good Latin by a 
very well-spoken person. No — he’d no idea of going 
to Wotan. He was fishing on his own beaches, and 
he showed us the beacons and turf-heaps that divided 
his lands from the Church property. He took us 
to his own house, gave us a good dinner, some more 
than good wine, sent a guide with us into Chichester, 



THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 235 

and became one of my best and most refreshing friends. 
He was a Meon by descent, from the west edge of 
the kingdom; a scholar educated, curiously enough, at 
Lyons, my old school; had travelled the world over, 
even to Rome, and was a brilliant talker. We found 
we had scores of acquaintances in common. It 
seemed he was a small chief under King Ethelwalch, 
and I fancy the King was somewhat afraid of him. 
The South Saxons mistrust a man who talks too well. 
Ah! Now , I’ve left out the very point of my story! 
He kept a great grey-muzzled old dog-seal that herhad 
brought up from a pup. He called it Padda — after 
one of my clergy. It was rather like fat, honest old 
Padda. The creature followed him everywhere, and 
nearly knocked down my good Eddi when we first 
met him. Eddi loathed it. It used to sniff at his 
thin legs and cough at him. I can’t say I ever took 
much notice of it (I was not fond of animals), till 
one day Eddi came to me with a circumstantial account 
of some witchcraft that Meon worked. He would 
tell the seal to go down to the beach the last thing at 
night, and bring him word of the weather. When it 
came back, Meon might say to his slaves, “ Padda 
thinks we shall have wind to-morrow. Haul up the 
boats!” I spoke to Meon casually about the story, and 
he laughed. 

‘He told me he could judge by the look of the 
creature’s coat and the way it sniffed what weather 
was brewing. Quite possible. One need not put 
down everything one does not understand to the work 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


236 

of bad spirits — or good ones, for that matter/ He 
nodded towards Puck, who nodded gaily in return. 

‘ I say so/ he went on, * because to a certain extent 
I have been made a victim of that habit of mind. Some 
while after I was settled at Selsea, King Ethelwalch 
and Queen Ebba ordered their people to be bap¬ 
tized. I fear Em too old to believe that a whole 
nation can change its heart at the King's command, 
and I had a shrewd suspicion that their real motive 
was to get a good harvest. No rain had fallen for 
two or three years, but as soon as we had finished 
baptizing, it fell heavily, and they all said it was a 
miracle/ 

‘And was it?’ Dan asked. 

‘Everything in life is a miracle, but’—the Arch¬ 
bishop twisted the heavy ring on his finger — ‘ I should 
be slow — ve-ry slow should I be — to assume that 
a certain sort of miracle happens whenever lazy and 
improvident people say they are going to turn over a 
new leaf if they are paid for it. My friend Meon had 
sent his slaves to the font, but he had not come him¬ 
self, so the next time I rode over — to return a manu¬ 
script — I took the liberty of asking why. He was 
perfectly open about it. He looked on the King’s 
action as a heathen attempt to curry favour with the 
Christians’ God through me the Archbishop, and he 
would have none of it. “My dear man,” I said, 
“admitting that that is the case, surely you, as an 
educated person, don’t believe in Wotan and all the 
other hobgoblins any more than Padda here.” The 




THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 237 

old seal was hunched up on his ox-hide behind his 
master’s chair. 

“‘Even if I don’t,” he said, “why should I insult 
the memory of my father’s Gods ? I have sent you 
a hundred and three of my rascals to christen. Isn’t 
that enough?” 

‘ “ By no means,” I answered. “ I want you .” 

‘“He wants us! What do you think of that, 
Padda?” He pulled the seal’s whiskers till it threw 
back its head and roared, and he pretended to interpret. 
“No! Padda says he won’t be baptized yet awhile. 
He says you’ll stay to dinner and come fishing with 
me to-morrow, because you’re overworked and need 
a rest.” 

‘“I wish you’d keep yon brute in its proper place,” 
I said, and Eddi, my chaplain, agreed. 

‘“I do,” said Meon. “I keep him just next my 
heart. He can’t tell a lie, and he doesn’t know how 
to love any one except me. It ’ud be the same if I 
were dying on a mud-bank, wouldn’t it, Padda ?” 

‘“Augh! Augh!” said Padda, and put up his head 
to be scratched. 

‘Then Meon began to tease Eddi: “Padda says, 
if Eddi saw his Archbishop dying on a mud-bank 
Eddi would tuck up his gown and run. Padda 
know's Eddi can run too! Padda came into Wittering 
Church last Sunday — all wet — to hear the music, 
and Eddi ran out.” 

‘My good Eddi rubbed his hands and his shins 
together, and flushed. “ Padda is a child of the Devil, 


238 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

who is the father of lies! ^ he cried, and begged my 
pardon for having spoken. I forgave him. 

“‘Yes. You are just about stupid enough for a 
musician,” said Meon. “ But here he is. Sing 
a hymn to him, and see if he can stand it. You’D, 
find my small harp beside the fireplace.” 

‘Eddi, who is really an excellent musician, played 
and sang for quite half an hour. Padda shuffled off 
his ox-hide, hunched himself on his flippers before 
him, and listened with his head thrown back. Yes 
— yess! A rather funny sight! Meon tried not to 
laugh, and asked Eddi if he were satisfied. 

‘It takes some time to get an idea out of my good 
Eddi’s head. He looked at me. 

“‘Do you want to sprinkle him with holy water, 
and see if he flies up the chimney ? Why not bap¬ 
tize him?” said Meon. 

‘Eddi was really shocked. I thought it was bad 
taste myself. 

‘“That’s not fair,” said Meon. “You call him a 
demon and a familiar spirit because he loves his master 
and likes music, and when I offer you a chance to 
prove it, you won’t take it. Look here! I’ll make 
a bargain. I’ll be baptized if you’ll baptize Padda 
too. He’s more of a man than most of my slaves.” 

‘“One doesn’t bargain — or joke — about these 
matters,” I said. He was going altogether too far. 

‘“Quite right,” said Meon, “I shouldn’t like any 
one to joke about Padda. Padda, go down to the 
beach and bring us to-morrow’s weather!” 


THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 239 

‘My good Eddi must have been a little overtired 
with his day’s work. “I am a servant of the Church,” 
he cried. “My business is to save souls, not to enter 
into fellowships and understandings with accursed 
beasts.” 

‘“Have it your own narrow way,” said Meon. 
“Padda, you needn’t go.” The old fellow flounced 
back to his ox-hide at once. 

‘“Man could learn obedience at least from that 
creature,” said Eddi, a little ashamed of himself. 
Christians should not curse. 

‘“Don’t begin to apologise just when I am begin- 
ning to like you,” said Meon. “We’ll leave Padda 
behind to-morrow — out of respect to your feelings. 
Now let’s go to dinner. We must be up early to-mor¬ 
row for the whiting.” 

‘The next was a beautiful crisp autumn morn¬ 
ing — a weather breeder, if I had taken the trouble 
to think; but it’s refreshing to escape from kings and 
converts for half a day. We three went by ourselves 
in Meon’s smallest boat, and we got on the whiting 
near an old wreck, a mile or so off shore. Meon knew 
the marks to a yard, and the fish were keen. Yes — 
yess! A perfect morning’s fishing! If a bishop can’t 
be a fisherman, who can?’ He twiddled his ring 
again. ‘We stayed there a little too long, and while 
we were getting up our stone, down came the fog. 
After some discussion, we decided to row for the 
land. The ebb was just beginning to make round the 
point, and sent us all ways at once like a coracle/ 


240 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Selsea Bill/ said Puck under his breath. ‘The 
tides run something furious there/ 

‘I believe you/ said the Archbishop. ‘Meon and 
I have spent a good many evenings arguing as to 
where exactly we drifted. All I know is we found 
ourselves in a little rocky cove that had sprung up 
round us out of the fog, and a swell lifted the boat on 
to a ledge, and she broke up beneath our feet. We 
had just time to shuffle through the weed before the 
next wave. The sea was rising. 

“‘IPs rather a pity we didn't let Padda go down 
to the beach last night/' said Meon. “He might 
have warned us this was coming." 

“‘Better fall into the hands of God than the hands 
of demons," said Eddi, and his teeth chattered as he 
prayed. A nor'-west breeze had just got up — dis¬ 
tinctly cool. 

“‘Save what you can of the boat," said Meon; 
“we may need it," and we had to drench ourselves 
again, fishing out stray planks.' 

‘What for ?' said Dan. 

‘For firewood. We did not know when we should 
get off. Eddi had flint and steel, and we found dry 
fuel in the old gulls' nests and lit a fire. It smoked 
abominably, and we guarded it with boat-planks 
up-ended between the rocks. One gets used to that 
sort of thing if one travels. Unluckily I'm not so 
strong as I was. I fear I must have been a trouble 
to my friends. It was blowing a full gale before 
midnight. Eddi wrung *>ut his cloak, and tried to 



THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 241 

wrap me in it, but I ordered him on his obedience 
to keep it. However, he held me in his arms all the 
first night, and Meon begged his pardon for what 
he’d said the night before — about Eddi running 
away if he found me on a sandbank, you remember. 

‘“You are right in half your prophecy,” said Eddi. 
“I’ve tucked up my gown, at any rate.” (The wind 
had blown it over his head.) “Now let us thank 
God for His mercies.” 

‘“Hum!” said Meon. “If this gale lasts, we stand 
a very fair chance of dying of starvation.” 

‘“If it be God’s will that we live, God will pro¬ 
vide,” said Eddi. “At least help me to sing to Him.” 
The wind almost whipped the words out of his mouth 
but he braced himself against a rock and sang psalms. 

‘I’m glad I never concealed my opinion — from 
myself — that Eddi was a better man than I. Yet 
I have worked hard in my time — very hard! Yes— ; 
yess! So the morning and evening were our second 
day on that islet. There was rainwater in the rock 
r pools, and, as a Churchman, I knew how to fast, but 
I admit we were hungry. Meon fed our fire chip 
by chip to eke it out, and they made me sit over it, 
the dear fellows, when I was too weak to object. Meon 
held me in his arms the second night, just like a child. 
My good Eddi was a little out of his senses, and imag¬ 
ined himself teaching a York choir to sing. Even so 
he was beautifully patient with them. 

‘I heard Meon whisper, “If this keeps up we shall 
go to our Gods. I wonder thut Wotan will say to 





REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


242 

me. He must know I don’t believe in him. On 
the other hand, I can’t do what Ethelwalch finds so 
easy — curry favour with your God at the last min¬ 
ute, in the hope of being saved — as you call it. How 
do you advise, Bishop ?” 

‘“My dear man,” I said, “if that is yr ur honest 
belief, I take it upon myself to say you had far better 
not curry favour with any God. But if it’s only 
your Jutish pride that holds you back, lift me up, 
and I’ll baptize you even now.” 

‘“Lie still,” said Meon. “I could judge better if I 
were in my own hall. But to desert one’s fathers’ Gods 
even — if one doesn’t believe in them—in the middle of 
a gale, isn’t quite — What would you do yourself?” 

‘I was lying in his arms, kept alive by the warmth 
of his big, steady heart. It did not seem to me the 
time or the place for subtle arguments, so I answered, 
“No, I certainly should not desert my God.” I don’t 
see, even now, what else I could have said. 

“‘Thank you. I’ll remember that, if I live,” said 
Meon, and I must have drifted back to my dreams 
about Northumbria and beautiful France, for it was 
broad daylight when I heard him calling on Wotan 
in that high, shaking, heathen yell that I detest so. 

‘“Lie quiet. I’m giving Wotan his chance,” he 
said. Our dear Eddi ambled up, still beating time 
to his imaginary choir. 

‘“Yes. Call on your Gods,” he cried, “and see 
what gifts they will send you. They are gone on a 
journey, or they are hunting.” 


THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 243 

‘I assure you the words were not out of his mouth 
when old Padda shot from the top of a cold wrinkled 
swell, drove himself over the weedy ledge, and landed 
fair in our laps with a rock-cod between his teeth. I 
could not help smiling at Eddi’s face. “A miracle! 
A miracle!” he cried, and kneeled down to clean the 
cod. 

“‘ You’ve been a long time winding us, my son,” 
said Meon. “Now fish — fish for all our lives. We’re 
starving, Padda.” 

‘The old fellow flung himself quivering like a salmon 
backward into the boil of the currents round the rocks, 
and then Meon said, “We’re safe. I’ll send him to 
fetch help when this wind drops. Eat and be 
thankful.” 

‘ I never tasted anything so good as those rock cod¬ 
lings we took from Padda’s mouth and half roasted 
over the fire. Between his plunges Padda would 
bunch up and purr over Meon with the tears running 
down his face. I never knew before that seals could 
weep for joy — as I have wept. 

‘“Surely,” said Eddi, with his mouth full, “God 
has made the seal the loveliest of His creatures in the 
water. Look how Padda breasts the current! He 
stands up against it like a rock. Now watch the chain 
of bubbles where he dives; and now — there is his 
wise head under that rock-ledge! Oh, a blessing 
be on thee, my little brother Padda!” 

‘“You said he was a child of the Devil!” Meon 
laughed. 




244 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


“‘There I sinned/’ poor Eddi answered. “Call 
him here, and I will ask his pardon. God sent him 
out of the storm to humble me, a fool.” 

‘“I won’t ask you to enter into fellowships and 
understandings with any accursed brute,” said Meon 
rather unkindly. “Shall we say he was sent to our 
Bishop as the ravens were sent to your prophet Elijah ?” 

‘“Doubtless that is so,” said Eddi. “I will write 
it so if I live to get home.” 

‘“No — no!” I said. “Let us three poor men 
kneel and thank God for His mercies.” 

‘We kneeled, and old Padda shuffled up and thrust 
his head under Meon’s elbows. I laid my hand upon 
it and blessed him. So did Eddi. 

‘“And now, my son,” I said to Meon, “shall ] 
baptize thee ?” 

“‘Not yet,” said he. “Wait till we are well ashore 
and at home. No God in any Heaven shall say that 
I came to him or left him because I was wet and cold. 
I will send Padda to my people for a boat. Is that 
witchcraft, Eddi?” 

‘“Why, no. Surely Padda will go and pull them 
to the beach by the skirts of their gowns as he pulled 
me in Wittering Church to ask me to sing. Only 
then I was afraid, and did not understand,” said 
Eddi. 

‘“You are understanding now,” said Meon, and 
at a wave of his arm off went Padda to the mainland, 
making a wake like a war-boat till we lost him in the 
rain. Meon’s people could not bring a boat across 





THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 245 

for some hours; even so it was ticklish work among 
the rocks in that tideway. But they hoisted me 
aboard, too stiff to move, and Padda swam behind 
us, barking and turning somersaults all the way to 
Manhood End!’ 

‘Good old Padda!’ murmured Dan. 

‘When we were quite rested and re-clothed, and 
his people had been summoned — not an hour before 
—• Meon offered himself to be baptized/ 

‘Was Padda baptized too?’ Una asked. 

‘No, that was only Meon’s joke. But he sat blink¬ 
ing on his ox-hide in the middle of the hall. When 
Eddi (who thought I wasn’t looking) made a little 
cross in holy water on his wet muzzle, he kissed Eddi’s 
hand. A week before Eddi wouldn’t have touched 
him. That was a miracle, if you like! But seriously, 
I was more glad than I can tell you to get Meon. A 
rare and splendid soul that never looked back — 
never looked back!’ The Archbishop half closed 
his eyes. 

‘But, sir,’ said Puck, most respectfully, ‘haven’t 
you left out what Meon said afterwards?’ Before 
the Bishop could speak he turned to the children and 
went on: ‘Meon called all his fishers and ploughmen 
and herdsmen into the hall and he said: “Listen, men! 
Two days ago I asked our Bishop whether it was 
fair for a man to desert his fathers’ Gods in a time of 
danger. Our Bishop said it was not fair. You 
needn’t shout like that, because you are all Christians 
now. My red war-boat’s crew will remember how 


246 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


near we all were to death when Padda fetched them 
over to the Bishop's islet. You can tell your mates 
that even in that place, at that time, hanging on the wet 
weedy edge of death, our Bishop, a Christian, coun¬ 
selled me, a heathen, to stand by my fathers' Gods. 
I tell you now that a faith which takes care that every 
man shall keep faith, even though he may save his 
soul by breaking faith, is the faith for a man to believe 
in. So I believe in the Christian God, and in Wil¬ 
frid His Archbishop, and in the Church that Wilfrid 
rules. You have been baptized once by the King's 
orders. I shall not have you baptized again; but 
if I find any more old women being sent to Wotan, or 
any girls dancing on the sly before Balder, or any 
men talking about Thun or Lok or the rest, I will 
teach you with my own hands how to keep faith with 
the Christian God. Go out quietly; you’ll find a 
couple of beefs on the beach." Then of course they 
shouted “Hurrah!" which meant “Thor help us!" 
and — I think you laughed, sir ?' 

‘I think you remember it all too well,' said the 
Archbishop, smiling. 'It was a joyful day for me. 
I had learned a great deal on that rock where Padda 
found us. Yes —yess! One should deal kindly with 
all the creatures of God, and gently with their masters. 
But one learns late.' 

He rose, and his gold-embroidered sleeves rustled 
thickly. 

The organ clacked and took deep breaths. 

‘Wait a minute,' Dan whispered. ‘She's going 



THE CONVERSION OF ST. WILFRID 247 

to do the trumpety one. It takes all the wind you 
can pump. It’s in Latin, sir/ 

‘There is no other tongue/ the Archbishop answered. 

‘It’s not a real hymn/ Una explained. ‘She does 
it as a treat after her exercises. She isn’t a real organ¬ 
ist, you know. She just comes down here sometimes, 
from the Albert Hall.’ 

‘Oh, what a miracle of a voice!’ said the Archbishop. 

It rang out suddenly from a dark arch of lonely 
noises — every word spoken to the very end. 

* Dies Irae dies ilia 
Solvet saeclum in favilla. 

Teste David cum Sibylla/ 

The Archbishop caught his breath and moved 
forward. 

The music carried on by itself a while. 

‘Now it’s calling all the light out of the windows/ 
Una whispered to Dan. 

‘I think it’s more like a horse neighing in battle/ 
he whispered back. The voice cried 

‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum 

Per sepulchra regionum/ 

Deeper and deeper the organ dived down, but far 
below its deepest note they heard Puck’s voice joining 
in the last line, 

* Coget omnes ante thronum/ 

As they looked in wonder, for it sounded like the 
dull jar of one of the very pillars shifting, the 


248 rewards and fairies 

little fellow turned and went out through the south 
door. 

‘ Now’s the sorrowful part, but it’s very beautiful/ 
Una found herself speaking to the empty chair in 
front of her. 

‘What are you doing that for?’ Dan said behind 
her. ‘You spoke so politely, too/ 

‘I don’t know ... I thought . . . ’ said 

Una. ‘Funny!’ 

‘ ’Tisn’t. It’s the part you like best,’ Dan grunted* 

The music had turned soft — full of little sounds 
that chased each other on wings across the broad 
gentle flood of the main tune. But the voice was ten 
times lovelier than the music. 

4 Recordare Jesu pie. 

Quod sum causa Tuae viae, 

Ne me perdas ilia die!* 

There was no more. They moved out into the 
centre-aisle. 

‘ ’That you?’ the Lady called as she shut the lid. 
‘I thought I heard you, and I played it on purpose/ 

‘Thank you awfully,’ said Dan. ‘We hoped you 
would, so we waited. Come on, Una, it’s pretty nearly 
dinner-time/ 


SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT 


Shove off from the wharf-edge! Steady! 
Watch for a smooth! Give way! 

If she feels the lop already 

She’ll stand on her head in the bay. 

It’s ebb — it’s dusk — it’s blowing, 

The shoals are a mile of white, 

But (snatch her along!) we’re going 
To find our master to-night. 

For we hold that in all disaster 
Of shipwreck, storm, or sword, 

A man must stand by his master 

When once he has pledged his word! 

Raging seas have we rowed in 
But we seldom saw them thus, 

Our master is angry with Odin — 

Odin is angry with us! 

Heavy odds have we taken, 

But never before such odds. 

The Gods know they are forsaken, 

We must risk the wrath of the Gods! 


249 


250 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


Over the crest she flies from, 

Into its hollow she drops, 

Crouches and clears her eyes from 
The wind-torn breaker-tops, 

Ere out on the shrieking shoulder 
Of a hill-high surge she drives* 

Meet her! Meet her and hold her! 

Pull for your scoundrel lives! 

The thunders bellow and clamour 
The harm that they mean to do; 

There goes Thor’s own Hammer 
Cracking the dark in two! 

Close! But the blow has missed her. 

Here comes the wind of the blow! 

Row or the squall ’ll twist her 
. Broadside on to it! —Row ! 

Hearken, Thor of the Thunder, 

We are not here for a jest — 

For wager, warfare, or plunder, 

Or to put your power to test. 

This work is none of our wishing 

We would house at home if we might — 
But our master is wrecked out fishing, 

We go to find him to-night. 

For we hold that ua all disaster — 

As the Gods Themselves have said — 
A man must stand by his master 
Till one of the two is dead* 





* 5 * 


SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT 

That is our way of thinking, 

Now you can do as you will, 

While we try to save her from sinking, 

And hold her head to it still. 

Bale her and keep her moving, 

Or she’ll break her back in the trough . . » 
Who said the weather’s improving, 

Or the swells are taking off? 


Sodden, and chafed and aching, 

Gone in the loins and knees — 

No matter — the day is breaking, 

And there’s far less weight to the seas! 
Up mast, and finish baling — 

In oars, and out with the mead — 
The rest will be two-reef sailing . . , 

That was a night indeed! 

But we hold that in all disaster 
(And faith, we have found it true!) 
If only you stand by your master, 
The Gods will stand by you! 







A Doctor of Medicine 



































































AN ASTROLOGER’S SONG 


To the Heavens above us 
O look and behold 
The Planets that love us 
All harnessed in gold! 

What chariots, what horses 
Against us shall bide 
While the Stars in their courses 
Do fight on our side ? 

All thought, all desires. 

That are under the sun. 

Are one with their fires, 

As we also are one; 

All matter, all spirit, 

All fashion, all frame, 

Receive and inherit 

Their strength from the same. 

(Oh, man that deniest 

All power save thine own. 
Their power in the highest 
Is mightily shown. 

Not less in the lowest 

That power is made clear. 

Oh, man, if thou knowest. 

What treasure is here!) 


256 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


Earth quakes in her throes 
And we wonder for why! 

But the blind planet knows 
When her ruler is nigh; 

And, attuned since Creation, 

To perfect accord, 

She thrills in her station 
And yearns to her Lord. 

The waters have risen, 

The springs are unbound —• 
The floods break their prison. 
And ravin around. 

No rampart withstands ’em, 

Their fury will last, 

Till the Sign that commands ’em 
Sinks low or swings past. 

Through abysses unproven, 

And gulfs beyond thought, 

Our portion is woven 
Our burden is brought. 

Yet They that prepare it, 

Whose Nature we share, 

Make us who must bear it 
Well able to bear. 

Though terrors o’ertake us 
We’ll not be afraid. 

No power can unmake us 
Save that which has made. 





AN ASTROLOGER’S SONG 


257 


Nor yet beyond reason 
Or hope shall we fall — 

All things have their season, 
And Mercy crowns all! 

Then, doubt not, ye fearful — 
The Eternal is King — 

Up, heart, and be cheerful, 

And lustily sing: — 

What chariots , what horses y 
Against us shall bide 
While the Stars in their courses 
Do fight on our side? 





A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


They were playing hide-and-seek with bicycle lamps 
after tea. Dan had hung his lamp on the apple tree 
at the end of the hellebore bed in the walled garden, 
and was crouched by the gooseberry bushes ready to 
dash off when Una should spy him. He saw her lamp 
come into the garden and disappear as she hid it 
under her cloak. While he listened for her footsteps, 
somebody (they both thought it was Phillips the gar¬ 
dener) coughed in the corner of the herb-beds. 

‘All right/ Una shouted across the asparagus; ‘we 
aren’t hurting your old beds, Phippsey!’ 

She flashed her lantern toward the spot, and in 
its circle of light they saw a Guy Fawkes-looking 
man in a black cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, 
walking down the path beside Puck. They ran to 
meet him, and the man said something to them about 
rooms in their head. After a time they understood 
he was warning them not to catch colds. 

‘You’ve a bit of a cold yourself, haven’t you?’ 
said Una, for he ended all his sentences with a con¬ 
sequential cough. Puck laughed. 

‘Child,’ the man answered, ‘if it hath pleased 
Heaven to afflict me with an infirmity-’ 

‘Nay, nay/ Puck struck in, ‘the maid spoke out 
259 


260 rewards and fairies 

of kindness. / know that half your cough is but a 
catch to trick the vulgar; and that’s a pity. There’s 
honesty enough in you, Nick, without rasping and 
hawking.’ 

‘ Good people’ — the man shrugged his lean shoul¬ 
ders— The vulgar crowd love not truth unadorned. 
Wherefore we philosophers must needs dress her to 
catch their eye or — ahem! — their ear.’ 

‘And what d’you think of that? ’ said Puck solemnly 
to Dan. 

T don’t know,’ he answered. ‘It sounds like 
lessons.’ 

‘Ah—well! There have been worse men than 
Nick Culpeper to take lessons from. Now, where 
can we sit that’s not indoors ?’ 

‘In the hay-mow, next to old Middenboro,’ Dan 
suggested. ‘He doesn’t mind.’ 

‘Eh?’ Mr. Culpeper was stooping over the pale 
hellebore blooms by the light of Una’s lamp. ‘Does 
Master Middenboro need my poor services, then?’ 

‘Save him, no!’ said Puck. ‘He is but a horse — 
next door to an ass, as you’ll see presently. Come! ’ 

Their shadows jumped and slid on the fruit-tree 
walls. They filed out of the garden by the snoring 
pig-pound and the crooning hen-house, to the shed 
where Middenboro the old lawn-mower pony lives. 
His friendly eyes showed green in the light as they set 
their lamps down on the chickens’ drinking-trough 
outside, and pushed past to the hay-mow. Mr* 
Culpeper stooped at the door. 



A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


261 

‘Mind where you lie/ said Dan. ‘This hay’s full 
of hedge-brishings.’ 

‘In! in!’ said Puck. ‘You’ve lain in fouler places 
than this, Nick. Ah! Let us keep touch with the 
stars!’ He kicked open the top of the half door, and 
pointed to the clear sky. ‘There be the planets you 
conjure with! What does your wisdom make of 
that wandering and variable star behind those apple 
boughs ?’ 

The children smiled. A bicycle that they knew 
well was being walked down the steep lane. 

‘Where?’ Mr. Culpeper leaned forward quickly. 
‘That? Some countryman’s lantern.’ 

‘Wrong, Nick,’ said Puck. ‘’Tis a singular bright 
star in Virgo, declining toward the house of Aquarius 
the water-carrier, who hath lately been afflicted by 
Gemini. Aren’t I right, Una?’ 

Mr. Culpeper snorted contemptuously. 

‘No. It’s the village nurse going down to the 
Mill about some fresh twins that came there last week. 
Nurse,’ Una called, as the light stopped on the flat, 
‘when can I see the Morris twins? And how are 
they ?’ 

‘Next Sunday, perhaps. Doing beautifully,’ the 
Nurse called back, and with a ping-ping-ping of the 
bell brushed round the corner. 

‘Her Uncle’s a vetinary surgeon near Banbury,’ 
Una explained, ‘and if you ring her bell at night, it 
rings right beside her bed — not downstairs at all. 
Then she jumps up — she always keeps a pair of dry 



262 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


boots in the fender, you know — and goes anywhere 
she’s wanted. We help her bicycle through gaps 
sometimes. Most of her babies do beautifully. She 
told us so herself.’ 

‘I doubt not, then, that she reads in my books,’ 
said Mr. Culpeper, quietly. ‘Twins at the Mill!’ 
he muttered half aloud. “‘And again He sayeth, 
Return, ye children of men.”’ 

‘Are you a doctor or a rector?’ Una asked, and 
Puck with a shout turned head over heels in the hay. 
But Mr. Culpeper was quite serious. He told them 
that he was a physician-astrologer — a doctor who 
knew all about the stars as well as all about herbs for 
medicine. He said that the sun, the moon, and five 
Planets, called Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn, and 
Venus, governed everybody and everything in the 
world. They all lived in Houses — he mapped out 
some of these against the dark with a busy forefinger 
— and they moved from House to House like pieces at 
draughts; and they went loving and hating each other 
all over the skies. If you knew their likes and dis¬ 
likes, he said, you could make them cure your patient 
and hurt your enemy, and find out the secret causes of 
things. He talked of these five Planets as though they 
belonged to him, or as though he were playing long 
games against them. The children burrowed in the 
hay up to their chins, and looked out over the half 
door at the solemn, star-powdered sky till they seemed 
to be falling upside down into it, while Mr. Culpeper 
talked about ‘trines’ and ‘oppositions’ and ‘con- 



A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


263 

junctions' and ‘sympathies' and ‘antipathies' in a 
tone that just matched things. 

A rat ran between Middenboro's feet, and the old 
pony stamped. 

‘ Mid hates rats,' said Dan, and passed him over a 
lock of hay. ‘ I wonder why.' 

‘ Divine Astrology tells us,' said Mr. Culpeper. 
‘The horse, being a martial beast that beareth man 
to battle, belongs naturally to the red planet Mars — 
the Lord of War. I would show you him, but he's 
too near his setting. Rats and mice, doing their 
businesses by night, come under the dominion of 
our Lady the Moon. Now between Mars and Luna, 
the one red, t'other white, the one hot, t'other cold 
and so forth, stands, as I have told you, a natural 
antipathy, or, as you say, hatred. Which antipathy 
their creatures do inherit. Whence, good people, 
you may both see and hear your cattle stamp in their 
stalls for the self-same causes as decree the passages of 
the stars across the unalterable face of Heaven! Ahem!' 

Puck lay along chewing a leaf. They felt him 
shake with laughter, and Mr. Culpeper sat up stiffly. 

‘I myself,' said he, ‘have saved men's lives, and 
not a few neither, by observing at the proper time — 
there is a time, mark you, for all things under the 
Sun — by observing, I say, so small a beast as a rat 
in conjunction with so great a matter as this dread 
arch above us.’ He swept his hand across the sky. 
‘Yet there are those,' he went on sourly, ‘who have 
years without knowledge.’ 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


264 

‘Right/ said Puck. ‘No fool like an old fool/ 

Mr. Culpeper wrapped his cloak round him and 
sat still while the children stared at the Great Bear 
on the hill-top. 

‘Give him time/ Puck whispered behind his hand. 
‘He turns like a timber-tug — all of a piece/ 

‘AhemP Mr. Culpeper said suddenly. ‘I’ll prove 
it to you. When I was physician to Saye’s Horse, and 
fought the King — or rather the man Charles Stuart 
— in Oxfordshire (I had my learning at Cambridge), ; 
the plague was very hot all around us. I saw it at 
close hands. He who says I am ignorant of the plague, 
for example, is altogether beside the bridge/ 

‘We grant it/ said Puck solemnly. ‘But why talk 
of the plague this rare night?’ 

‘To prove my argument. This Oxfordshire plague, 
good people, being generated among rivers and ditches, 
was of a werish, watery nature. Therefore it was 
curable by drenching the patient in cold water, and 
laying him in wet cloths; or at least, so I cured some 
of them. Mark this. It bears on what shall come 
after/ 

‘Mark also, Nick/ said Puck, ‘that we are not your 
College of Physicians, but only a lad and a lass and a 
poor lubberkin. Therefore be plain, old Hyssop on 
the Wall!’ 

‘To be plain and in order with you, I was shot in 
the chest while gathering of betony from a brookside 
near Thame, and was took by the King’s men before 
their Colonel, one Blagg or Bragge, whom I warned 



A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 265 

honestly that I had spent the week past among our 
plague-stricken. He flung me off into a cowshed, 
much like this here, to die, as I supposed; but one of 
their priests crept in by night and dressed my wound. 
He was a Sussex man, like myself/ 

‘Who was that?’ said Puck suddenly. ‘Zack 
Tutshom ?’ 

‘No, Jack Marget,’ said Mr. Culpeper. 

‘Jack Marget of New College? The little merry 
man that stammered so ? Why a plague was stut¬ 
tering Jack at Oxford then?’ said Puck. 

‘He had come out of Sussex in hope of being made a 
Bishop when the King should have conquered the 
rebels, as he styled us Parliament men. His College 
had lent the King some monies too, which they never 
got again, no more than simple Jack got his bishopric. 
When we met, he had had a bitter bellyful of King’s 
promises, and wished to return to his wife and babes. 
This came about beyond expectation, for, so soon as 
I could stand of my wound, the man Blagge made 
excuse that I had been among the plague, and Jack 
had been tending me, to thrust us both out from their 
camp. The King had done with Jack now that Jack’s 
College had lent the money, and Blagge’s physician 
could not abide me because I would not sit silent and 
see him butcher the sick. (He was a College of 
Physicians man!) So Blagge, I say, thrust us both out, 
with many vile words, for a pair of pestilent, prating, 
pragmatical rascals.’ 

‘Ha! Called you pragmatical, Nick ?’ Puck started 



266 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


up. ‘High time Oliver came to purge the land! 
How did you and honest Jack fare next?’ 

‘We were in some sort constrained to each other’s 
company. I was for going to my house in Spitalfields, 
he would go to his parish in Sussex; but the plague 
was broke out and spreading through Wiltshire, 
Berkshire, and Hampshire, and he was so mad dis¬ 
tracted to think that it might even then be among his 
folks at home that I bore him company. He had com¬ 
forted me in my distress. I could not have done less. 
And I remembered that I had a cousin at Great WigseJl, 
near by Jack’s parish. Thus we footed it from Oxford, 
cassock and buff coat together, resolute to leave wars i 
on the left side henceforth; and either through our 
mean appearances, or the plague making men less 
cruel, we were not hindered. To be sure they put 
us in the stocks one half-day for rogues and vaga¬ 
bonds at a village under St. Leonard’s forest, where, 
as I have heard, nightingales never sing; but the con¬ 
stable very honestly gave me back my Astrological 
Almanac, which I carry with me.’ Mr. Culpeper 
tapped his thin chest. ‘I dressed a whitlow on his 
thumb. So we went forward. 

‘Not to trouble you with impertinences, we fetched | 
over against Jack Marget’s parish in a storm of rain 
about the day’s end. Here our roads divided, for I 



while Jack was pointing me out his steeple, we saw a 
man lying drunk, as he conceived, athwart the road. 
He said it would be one Hebden, a parishioner, and 



A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 267 

rill then a man of good life; and he accused himself 
bitterly for an unfaithful shepherd, that had left his 
flock to follow princes. But I saw it was the plague, 
and not the beginnings of it neither. They had set 
out the plague-stone, and the man’s head lay on it/ 

‘What’s a plague-stone?’ Dan whispered. 

‘When the plague is so hot in a village that the 
neighbours shut the roads against ’em, people set a 
hollowed stone, pot, or pan, where such as would 
purchase victual from outside may lay money and the 
paper of their wants, and depart. Those that would 
sell come later — what will a man not do for gain ? — 
snatch the money forth, and leave in exchange such 
croods as their conscience reckons fair value. I saw 

D 

a silver groat in the water, and the man’s list of what 
he would buy was rain-pulped in his wet hand. 

‘“My wife! Oh, my wife and babes!” says Jack 
of a sudden, and makes up-hill — I with him. 

‘A woman peers out from behind a barn, crying 
out that the village is stricken with the plague, and 
that for our lives’ sake we must avoid it. 

‘“Sweetheart!” says Jack, “Must I avoid thee?” 
and she leaps at him and says the babes are safe. 
She was his wife. 

‘When he had thanked God, even to tears, he tells 
me this was not the welcome he had intended, and 
presses me to flee the place while I was clean. 

‘“Nay! The Lord do so to me and more also if 
I desert thee now,” I said. “These affairs are, under 
God’s leave, in some fashion my strength.” 




268 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

“‘Oh, sir,” she says, “are you a physician? We 
have none.” 

‘“Then, good people,” said I, “I must e’en justify 
myself to you by my works.” 

‘“Look — look ye,” stammers Jack, “I took you 
all this time for a crazy Roundhead preacher.” He 
laughs, and she, and then I — all three together in 
the rain are overtook by an unreasonable gust or 
clap of laughter, which none the less eased us. We 
call it in medicine the Hysterical Passion. So I went 
home with ’em.’ 

‘Why did you not go on to your cousin at Great 
Wigsell, Nick?’ Puck suggested. ‘’Tis barely seven 
mile up the road.’ 

‘ But the plague was here,’ Mr. Culpeper answered, 
and pointed up the hill. ‘ What else could I have done ? ’ 

‘What were the parson’s children called ?’ said Una. 

‘Elizabeth, Alison, Stephen, and Charles — a babe. 
I scarce saw them at first, for I separated to live with 
their father in a cart-lodge. The mother we put — 
forced — into the house with her babes. She had 
done enough. 

‘And now, good people, give me leave to be par¬ 
ticular in this case. The plague was worst on the 
north side of the street, for lack, as I showed ’em, of 
sunshine; which, proceeding from the primum mobile , 
or source of life (I speak astrologically), is cleansing 
and purifying in the highest degree. The plague was 
hot, too, by the corn-chandlers, where they sell forage 
to the carters: extreme hot in both Mills along the 



A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 269 

river, and scatteringly in other places, except , mark 
you, at the smithy. Mark here, that all forges and 
smith-shops belong to Mars, even as corn and meat 
and wine-shops acknowledge Venus for their mistress. 
There was no plague in the smithy at Munday’s 
Lane-’ 

‘Munday’s Lane? You mean our village? I 
thought so when you talked about the two Mills/ 
cried Dan. ‘Where did we put the plague-stone? 
Ed like to have seen it/ 

‘Then look at it now/ said Puck, and pointed to 
the chickens’ drinking-trough where they had set 
their bicycle lamps. It was a rough, oblong stone 
pan, rather like a small kitchen sink, which Phillips, 
who never wastes anything, had found in a ditch and 
had used for his precious hens. 

‘That?’ said Dan and Una, and stared, and stared, 
and stared. 

Mr. Culpeper made impatient noises in his throat 
and went on. 

‘I am at these pains to be particular, good people, 
because I would have you follow, so far as you may, 
the operations of my mind. That plague which I 
told you I had handled outside Wallingford in Oxford¬ 
shire was of a watery nature, conformable to the brook- 
ish riverine country it bred in, and curable, as I have 
said, by drenching in water. This plague of ours here, 
for all that it flourished along watercourses — every 
soul at both Mills died of it — could not be so handled. 
Which brought me to a stand. Ahem!’ 




270 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘And your sick people in the meantime ?’ Puck 
demanded. 

‘We persuaded them on the north side of the street 
to lie out in Hitheram’s field. Where the plague 
had taken one, or at most two, in a house, folk would 
not shift for fear of thieves in their absence. They 
cast away their lives to die among their goods/ 

‘Human nature/ said Puck. ‘Eve seen it time 
and again. How did your sick do in the fields?’ 

‘They died not near so thick as those that kept within 
doors, and even then they died more out of distraction 
and melancholy than plague. But I confess, good 
people, I could not in any sort master the sickness, or 
come at a glimmer of its nature or governance. To 
be brief, I was flat bewildered at the brute malignity 
of the disease, and so — did what I should have done 
before — dismissed all conjectures and apprehensions 
that had grown up within me, chose a good hour by 
my Almanac, clapped my vinegar-cloth to my face, 
and entered some empty houses, resigned to wait upon 
the stars for guidance/ 

‘At night? Were you not horribly frightened?* 
said Puck. 

‘I dared to hope that the God who hath made man 
so nobly curious to search out His mysteries might 
not destroy a devout seeker. In due time — there 
is a time, as I have said, for everything under the 
sun — I spied a whitish rat, very puffed and scabby, 
which sat beneath the dormer of an attic through 
which shined our Lady the Moon. Whilst I looked 


A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


271 

on him — and her — she was moving towards old 
cold Saturn, her ancient ally — the rat creeped lan- 
guishingly into her light, and there, before my eyes, 
died. Presently his mate or companion came out, 
laid him down beside there, and in like fashion died 
too. Later — an hour or less to midnight — a third 
rat did e’en the same; always choosing the moonlight 
to die in. This threw me into an amaze, since, as we 
know, the moonlight is favourable, not hurtful, to the 
creatures of the Moon; and Saturn, being friends with 
her, as you would say, was hourly strengthening her 
evil influence. Yet these three rats had been stricken 
dead in very moonlight. I leaned out of the window 
to see which of Heaven’s host might be on our side, 
and there beheld I good trusty Mars, very red and 
heated, bustling about his setting. I straddled the 
roof to see better. 

‘Jack Marget came up street going to comfort our 
sick in Hitheram’s field. A tile slipped under my foot. 

‘Says he heavily enough, “Watchman, what of the 
night?” 

‘“Heart up, Jack,” says I. “Methinks there’s 
one fighting for us that, like a fool, I’ve forgot all this 
summer.” My meaning was naturally the planet 
Mars. 

‘“Pray to Him then,” says he. “I forgot Him, too, 
this summer.” 

‘He meant God, whom he always bitterly accused 
himself of having forgotten up in Oxfordshire, among 
the King’s men. I called down that he had made 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


272 

amends enough for his sin by his work among the 
sick, but he said he would not believe so till the plague 
was lifted from ’em. He was at his strength’s end — 
more from melancholy than any just cause. I have 
seen this before among priests and over-cheerful men. 
I drenched him then and there with a half cup of waters, 
which I do not say cure the plague, but are excellent 
against heaviness of the spirits.’ 

‘What were they?’ said Dan. 

‘White brandy rectified, camphor, cardamoms, gin¬ 
ger, two sorts of pepper, and aniseed.’ 

‘Whew!’ said Puck. ‘Waters you call ’em!’ 

‘Jack coughed on it valiantly, and went down hill 
with me. I was for the Lower Mill in the valley, to 
note the aspect of the Heavens. My mind had already 
shadowed forth the reason, if not the remedy, for our 
troubles, but I would not impart it to the vulgar till I 
was satisfied. That practice may be perfect, judgment 
ought to be sound, and to make judgment sound is 
required an exquisite knowledge. Ahem! I left Jack 
and his lantern among the sick in Hitheram’s field. 
He still maintained the prayers of the so-called Church, 
which were rightly forbidden by Cromwell.’ 

‘You should have told your cousin at Wigsell/ 
said Puck, ‘and Jack would have been fined for it, 
and you’d have had half the money. How did you 
come so to fail in your duty, Nick ?’ 

Mr. Culpeper laughed — his only laugh that even- 
ing — and the children jumped at the loud neigh 
of it. 


A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


273 

‘We were not fearful of men s judgment in those 
days/ he answered. ‘Now mark me closely, good 
people, for what follows will be to you, though not 
to me, remarkable. When I reached the empty Mill, 
old Saturn, low down in the House of the Fishes, 
threatened the Sun’s rising-place. Our Lady the Moon 
was moving towards the help of him (understand, 
I speak astrologically). I looked abroad upon the high 
Heavens, and I prayed the Maker of ’em for guidance. 
Now Mars sparklingly withdrew himself below the 
sky. On the instant of his departure, which I noted, 
a bright star or vapour leaped forth above his head 
(as though he had heaved up his sword), and broke 
all about in fire. The cocks crowed midnight through 
the valley, and I sat me down by the mill-wheel, chew¬ 
ing spearmint (though that’s a herb of Venus), and 
calling myself all the asses’ heads in the world! ’Twas 
plain enough now ! 9 

‘What was plain?’ said Una. 

‘The true cause and cure of the plague. Mars, 
g^od fellow, had fought for us to the uttermost. Faint 
though he had been in the Heavens, and this had 
made me overlook him in my computations, he more 
than any of the other planets had kept the Heavens — 
which is to say, had been visible some part of each 
night wellnigh throughout the year. Therefore his 
fierce and cleansing influence, warring against the 
Moon, had stretched out to kill those three rats under 
my nose, and under the nose of their natural mistress, 
the Moon. I had known Mars lean half across Heaven 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


274 

to deal our Lady the Moon some shrewd blow from 
under his shield, but I had never before seen his 
strength displayed so effectual.’ 

‘I don’t understand a bit. Do you mean Mars 
killed the rats because he hated the Moon ?’ said Una* 

4 That is as plain as the pikestaff with which Blagge’s 
men pushed me forth/ Mr. Culpeper answered. ‘I’ll 
prove it. Why had the plague not broken out at the 
blacksmith’s shop in Munday’s Lane ? Because, as 
I’ve shown you, forges and smithies belong naturally 
to Mars, and, for his honour’s sake, Mars ’ud keep 
’em clean from the creatures of the Moon. But was 
it like, think you, that he’d come down and rat-catch 
in general for lazy, ungrateful mankind ? That were 
working a willing horse to death. So, then, you can 
see that the meaning of the blazing star above him 
when he set was simply this: 44 Destroy and burn the 
creatures of the Moon, for they are at the root of your 
trouble. And thus, having shown you a taste of my 
power, good people, adieu.”’ 

4 Did Mars really say all that?* Una whispered. 

4 Yes, and twice so much as that to any one who 
had ears to hear. Briefly, he enlightened me that the 
plague was spread by the creatures of the Moon. The 
Moon, our Lady of Ill-aspect, was the offender. My 
own poor wits showed me that I, Nick Culpeper, had 
the people in my charge, God’s good providence aiding 
me, and no time to lose neither. 

4 1 posted up the hill, and broke into Hitheram’s 
held amongst ’em all at prayers. 


A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 


275 

“‘Eureka, good people!” I cried, and cast down 
a dead mill-rat which Ed found. “Here’s your 
true enemy, revealed at last by the stars.” 

‘“Nay, but I’m praying,” says Jack. His face was 
as white as washed silver. 

‘“There’s a time for everything under the Sun,” 
says I. “If you would stay the plague, take and kill 
your rats.” 

‘“Oh, mad, stark mad!” says he, and wrings his 
hands. 

‘A fellow lay in the ditch beside him, who bellows 
that he’d as soon die mad hunting rats as be preached 
to death on a cold fallow. They laughed round him 
at this, but Jack Marget falls on his knees, and very 
presumptuously petitions that he may be appointed to 
die to save the rest of his people. This was enough 
to thrust ’em back into their melancholy. 

‘“You are an unfaithful shepherd, Jack,” I says. 
“Take a bat (which we call a stick in Sussex) and kill 
a rat if you die before sunrise. ’Twill save your 
people.” 

‘“Aye, aye. Take a bat and kill a rat,” he says 
ten times over, like a child, which moved ’em to un¬ 
governable motions of that hysterical passion before 
mentioned, so that they laughed all, and at least 
warmed their chill bloods at that very hour — one 
o’clock or a little after — when the fires of life burn 
lowest. Truly there is a time for everything; and the 
physician must work with it — ahem! — or miss his 
cure. To be brief with you, I persuaded ’em, sick or 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


276 

sound, to have at the whole generation of rats through¬ 
out the village. And there’s a reason for all things 
too, though the wise physician need not blab ’em all. 
Imprimis , or firstly, the mere sport of it, which lasted 
ten days, drew ’em most markedly out of their melan¬ 
choly. I’d defy sorrowful Job himself to lament 
or scratch while he’s routing rats from a rick. Secundo , 
or secondly, the vehement act and operation of this 
chase or war opened their skins to generous trans¬ 
piration — more vulgarly, sweated ’em handsomely; 
and this further drew off their black bile — the mother 
of sickness. Thirdly, when we came to burn the 
bodies of the rats, I sprinkled sulphur on the faggots, 
whereby the onlookers were as handsomely suffumi- 
gated. This I could not have compassed if I had made 
it a mere physician’s business; they’d have thought 
it some conjuration. Yet more, we cleansed, limed, 
and burned out a hundred foul poke-holes, sinks, slews, 
and corners of unvisited filth in and about the houses 
in the village, and by good fortune (mark here that 
Mars was in opposition to Venus!) burned the corn- 
chandler’s shop to the ground. Mars loves not Venus. 
Will Noakes the saddler dropped his lantern on a 
truss of straw while he was rat-hunting there.’ 

‘Had ye given Will any of that gentle cordial of 
yours, Nick, by any chance?’ said Puck. 

‘A glass—or two glasses—not more. But as I 
would say, in fine, when we had killed the rats, I took 
ash, slag, and charcoal from the smithy, and burnt 
earth from the brickyard (I reason that a brickyard 


A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 277 

belongs to Mars), and rammed it with iron crowbars 
into the rat-runs and buries, and beneath all the house 
floors. The Creatures of the Moon hate all that Mars 
hath used for his own clean ends. For example — 
rats bite not iron.’ 

‘And how did poor stuttering Jack endure it?’ said 
Puck. 

‘He sweated out his melancholy through his skin, 
and catched a loose cough, which I cured with elec¬ 
tuaries, according to art. It is noteworthy, were I 
speaking among my equals, that the venom of the 
plague translated, or turned itself into, and evaporated, 
or went away as, a very heavy hoarseness and thickness 
of the head, throat, and chest. (Observe from my 
books which planets govern these portions of man’s 
body, and your darkness, good people, shall be illu¬ 
minated— ahem!) None the less, the plague, qua 
plague, ceased and took off (for we only lost three more, 
and two of ’em had it already on ’em) from the morn¬ 
ing of the day that Mars enlightened me by the Lower 
Mill.’ He coughed — almost trumpeted — trium¬ 
phantly. 

‘It is proved,’ he jerked out. ‘I say I have proved 
my contention, which is, that by Divine Astrology and 
humble search into the veritable causes of things — at 
the proper time — the sons of wisdom may combat 
even the plague.’ 

‘H’m!’ Puck replied. ‘For my own part I hold 
that a simple soul-’ 

‘Mine? — simple, forsooth?’ said Mr. Culpeper. 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


278 

‘A very simple soul, a high courage tempered with 
sound and stubborn conceit, is stronger than all the 
stars in their courses. So I confess truly that you 
saved the village, Nick/ 

‘I stubborn? I stiff-necked? I ascribed all my 
poor success, under God’s good providence, to Divine 
Astrology. Not to me the glory! You talk as that 
dear weeping ass Jack Marget preached before I wen* 
back to my work in Red Lion House, Spitalfields. 

‘Oh! Stammering Jack preached, did he? Thej 
say he loses his stammer in the pulpit/ 

‘And his wits with it. He delivered a most idolatrous 
discourse when the plague was stayed. He took for 
his text: “The wise man that delivered the city.” I 
could have given him a better such as: “There is a 
time for- 

‘But what made you go to church to hear him?’ 
Puck interrupted. ‘Wail Attersole was your lawfully 
appointed preacher, and a dull dog he was!’ 

Mr. Culpeper wriggled uneasily. 

‘The vulgar/ said he, ‘the old crones and —ahem 
— the children, Alison and the others, they dragged 
me to the House of Rimmon by the hand. I was in 
two minds to inform on Jack for maintaining the 
mummeries of the falsely called Church, which, Til 
prove to you, are founded merely on ancient fables-’ 

‘Stick to your herbs and planets/ said Puck laugh¬ 
ing. ‘You should have told the magistrates, Nick, 
and had Jack fined. Again, why did you neglect your 
plain duty ?’ 


A DOCTOR OF MEDICINE 279 

‘ Because — because I was kneeling, and praying, 
and weeping with the rest of ’em at the altar rails. In 
medicine this is called the Hysterical Passion. It may 
be — it may be.’ 

‘That’s as may be,’ said Puck. They heard him 
turn the hay. ‘Why, your hay is half hedge-brishings/ 
he said. ‘You don’t expect a horse to thrive on oak 
and ash and thorn leaves, do you?’ 


Ping-ping-ping went the bicycle bell round the 
corner. Nurse was coming back from the Mill. 

‘ Is it all right ?’ Una called. 

‘All quite right,’ Nurse called back. ‘They’re to 
be christened next Sunday.’ 

‘ What ? What ? ’ They both leaned forward across 
the half-door. It could not have been properly fas¬ 
tened, for it opened, and tilted them out with hay and 
leaves sticking all over them. 

‘Come on! We must get those two twins’ names/ 
said Una, and they charged up-hill shouting over the 
hedge, till Nurse slowed up and told them. 

When they returned, old Middenboro had got out 
of his stall, and they spent a lively ten minutes chasing 
him in again by starlight. 





























































































‘OUR FATHERS OF OLD* 


Excellent herbs had our fathers of old — 
Excellent herbs to ease their pain — 
Alexanders and Marigold, 

Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane. 

Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue, 

(Almost singing themselves they run) 

Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you — 

Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun. 

Anything green that grew out of the mould 
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old. 

Wonderful tales had our fathers of old — 

Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars — 
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, 

Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. 

Pat as a sum in division it goes — 

(Every plant had a star bespoke) — 

Who but Venus should govern the Rose ? 

Who but Jupiter own the Oak? 

Simply and gravely the facts are told 
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old. 

Wonderful little, when all is said, 

Wonderful little our fathers knew. 

Half their remedies cured you dead — 

Most of their teaching was quite untrue — 




282 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Look at the stars when a patient is ill, 

(Dirt has nothing to do with disease,) 

Bleed and blister as much as you will, 

Blister and bleed him as oft as you please/ 
Whence enormous and manifold 
Errors were made by our fathers of old. 

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land. 

And neither planet nor herb assuaged, 

They took their lives in their lancet-hand 
And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! 

Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door — 
Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled. 

Excellent courage our fathers bore — 

Excellent heart had our fathers of old. 

None too learned, but nobly bold 
Into the fight went our fathers of old. 

If it be certain, as Galen says, 

And sage Hippocrates holds as much — 

‘That those afflicted by doubts and dismays 
Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch/ 
Then, be good to us, stars above! 

Then, be good to us, herbs below! 

We are afflicted by what we can prove; 

We are distracted by what we know — 

So — ah so! 

Down from your heaven or up from your mould, 
Send us the hearts of our fathers of old! 





Simple Simon 



























































































































































































THE THOUSANDTH MAN 


One man in a thousand, Solomon says, 

Will stick more close than a brother. 

And it’s worth while seeking him half your days 
If you find him before the other. 

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend 
On what the world sees in you, 

But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend 
With the whole round world agin you. 

Mis neither promise nor prayer nor show 
Will settle the finding for ’ee. 

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em go 
By your looks or your acts or your glory. 

But if he finds you and you find him, 

The rest of the world don’t matter; 

For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim 
With you in any water. 

You can use his purse with no more talk 
Than he uses yours for his spendings; 

And laugh and meet in your daily walk 
As though there had been no lendings. 

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em call 
For silver and gold in their dealings; 

But the Thousandth Man he’s worth ’em all s 
Because you can show him your feelings! 

285 


286 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right. 
In season or out of season. 

Stand up and back it in all men’s sight — 

With that for your only reason! 

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide 
The shame or mocking or laughter, 

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side 
To the gallows-foot — and after! 


SIMPLE SIMON 


Cattiwow came down the steep lane with his five- 
horse timber-tug. He stopped by the wood-lump at 
the back gate to take off the brakes. His real name 
was Brabon, but the first time the children met him, 
years and years ago, he told them he was ‘carting wood/ 
and it sounded so exactly like ‘cattiwow/ that they 
never called him anything else. 

‘Hi!’ Una shouted from the top of the wood-lump, 
where they had been watching the lane. ‘What are 
you doing ? Why weren’t we told ?’ 

‘They’ve just sent for me/ Cattiwow answered. 
‘There’s a middlin’ big log sticked in the dirt at Rabbit 
Shaw, and ’ — he flicked his whip back along the 
line — ‘so they’ve sent for us all.’ 

Dan and Una threw themselves off the wood-lump 
almost under black Sailor’s nose. Cattiwow never 
let them ride the big beam that makes the body of the 
timber-tug, but they hung on behind while their teeth 
thuttered. 

The wood road beyond the brook dim os at once into 
the woods, and you see all the horses’ backs rising, 
one above another, like moving stairs. Cattiwow 
strode ahead in his sackcloth woodman’s petticoat, 
belted at the waist with a leather strap; and when he 

2 8j 




288 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


turned and grinned, his red lips showed under his sack¬ 
cloth-coloured beard. His cap was sackcloth toe, 
with a flap behind, to keep twigs and bark out of his 
neck. He navigated the tug among pools of heather- 
water that splashed in their faces, and through clumps 
of young birches that slashed at their legs, and when 
they hit an old toadstooled stump, they never knew 
whether it would give way in showers of rotten wood, 
or jar them back again. 

At the top of Rabbit Shaw half-a-dozen men and 
a team of horses stood round a forty-foot oak log in a 
muddy hollow. The ground about was poached and 
stoached with sliding hoof-marks, and a wave of dirt 
was driven up in front of the butt. 

‘What did you want to bury her for this way?’ 
said Cattiwow. He took his broad-axe and went up the 
log tapping it. 

‘She’s sticked fast/ said ‘Bunny’ Lewknor, whe 
managed the other team. 

Cattiwow unfastened the five wise horses from the 
tug. They cocked their ears forward, looked, and 
shook themselves. 

‘I believe Sailor knows,’ Dan whispered to Una. 

‘He do,’ said a man behind them. He was dressed 
in flour sack* like the others, and he leaned on his 
broad-axe, but the children, who knew all the wood- 
gangs, knew he was a stranger. In his size and oily 
hairiness he might have been Bunny Lewknor’s brother, 
except that his brown eyes were as soft as a spaniel’s, 
and his rounded black beard, beginning close up under 


SIMPLE SIMON 289 

them, reminded Una of the walrus in The Walrus and 
the Carpenter. 

‘Don’t he just about know?’ he said shyly, and 
shifted from one foot to the other. 

‘Yes. “What Cattiwow can’t get out of the woods 
must have roots growing on her’” —Dan had heard 
old Hobden say this a few days before. 

At that minute Puck pranced up, picking his way 
through the pools of black water in the ling. 

‘Look out!’ cried Una, jumping forward ‘He’ll 
see you, Puck!’ 

‘Me and Mus’ Robin are pretty middlin’ well 
; acquainted,’ the man answered with a smile that 
made them forget all about walruses. 

‘This is Simon Cheyneys,’ Puck began, and cleared 
his throat. ‘Shipbuilder of Rye Port; burgess of the 
said town, and the only-’ 

‘Oh, look! Look ye! That’s a knowing one,’ 
said the man. Cattiwow had fastened his team to the 
thin end of the log, and was moving them about with 
his whip till they stood at right angles to it, heading 
downhill. Then he grunted. The horses took the 
strain, beginning with Sailor next the log, like a tug- 
of-war team, and dropped almost to their knees. The 
log shifted a nail’s breadth in the clinging dirt, with 
the noise of a giant’s kiss. 

‘You’re getting her!’ Simon Cheyneys slapped his 
knee. ‘Hing on! Hing on, lads, or she’ll master ye' 
Ah!’ 

Sailor’s left hind hoof had slipped on a heather* 






REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


290 

tuft. One of the men whipped off his sack apron and 
spread it down. They saw Sailor feel for it, and recover. 
Still the log hung, and the team grunted in despair. 

‘Hai!’ shouted Cattiwow, and brought his dreadful 
whip twice across Sailor’s loins with the crack of a 
shot-gun. The horse almost screamed as he pulled 
that extra last ounce which he did not know was in him. 
The thin end of the log left the dirt and rasped on dry 
gravel. The butt ground round like a buffalo in his 
wallow. Quick as an axe-cut, Lewknor snapped on 
his five horses, and sliding, trampling, jingling, and 
snorting, they had the whole thing out on the heather. 

‘Dat’s the very first time I’ve knowed you lay into 
Sailor — to hurt him,’ said Lewknor. 

‘It is,’ said Cattiwow, and passed his hand over the 
two wheals. ‘But I’d ha’ laid my own brother open 
at that pinch. Now we’ll twitch her down the hill 
a piece — she lies just about right — and get her home 
by the low road. My team’ll do it, Bunny; you bring 
the tug along. Mind out!’ 

He spoke to the horses, who tightened the chains. 
The great log half rolled over, and slowly drew itself 
out of sight downhill, followed by the wood-gang and 
the timber-tug. In half a minute there was nothing 
to see but the deserted hollow of the torn-up dirt, the 
birch undergrowth still shaking, and the water draining 
back into the hoof-prints. 

‘Ye heard him?’ Simon Cheyneys asked. ‘He 
cherished his horse, but he’d ha’ laid him open in 
that pinch.’ 


SIMPLE SIMON 


291 

‘Not for his own advantage/ said Puck quickly. 
4 ’Twas only to shift the log/ 

‘I reckon every man born of woman has his log to 
shift in the world — if so be you’re hintin’ at any o’ 
Frankie’s doings. He never hit beyond reason or 
without reason,’ said Simon. 

‘/ never said a word against Frankie/ Puck retorted, 
with a wink at the children. ‘An’ if I did, do it lie in 
your mouth to contest my say-so, seeing how you-’ 

‘Why don’t it lie in my mouth, seeing I was the 
first which knowed Frankie for all he was?’ The 
burly sack-clad man puffed down at cool little Puck. 

‘Yes, and the first which set out to poison him — 
Frankie — on the high seas-’ 

Simon’s angry face changed to a sheepish grin. 
He waggled his immense hands, but Puck stood off 
and laughed mercilessly. 

‘ But let me tell you, Mus’ Robin/ he pleaded. 

‘I’ve heard the tale. Tell the children here. Look, 
Dan! Look, Una!’ — Puck’s straight brown finger 
levelled like an arrow. ‘There’s the only man that 
ever tried to poison Sir Francis Drake!’ 

‘Oh, Mus’ Robin! Tidn’t fair. You’ve the ’van¬ 
tage of us all in your upbringin’s by hundreds o’ years. 
’Stands to nature you know all the tales against every 
one.’ 

He turned his soft eyes so helplessly on Una that she 
cried, ‘Stop ragging him, Puck! You know he didn’t 
really.’ 

‘ I do. But why are you so sure, little maid ?’ 


292 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

‘ Because — because he doesn’t look like it/ said 
Una stoutly. 

‘I thank you/ said Simon to Una. 4 1 — I was 
always trustable like with children if you let me alone, 
you double handful o’ mischief!’ He pretended to 
heave up his axe on Puck; and then his shyness over¬ 
took him afresh. 

‘Where did you know Sir Francis Drake?’ said 
Dan, not relishing being called a child. 

‘At Rye Port, to be sure/ said Simon, and seeing 
Dan’s bewilderment, repeated it. 

‘Yes, but look here/ said Dan. ‘Drake he was a 
Devon man. The song says so.’ 

“‘And ruled the Devon seas/” Una went on. 
‘That’s what I was thinking — if you don’t mind.’ 

Simon Cheyneys seemed to mind very much indeed, 
for he swelled in silence while Puck laughed. 

‘ Hutt! ’ he burst out at last, ‘ I’ve heard that talk, too. 
If you listen to them West Country folk, you’ll listen 
to a pack o’ lies. I believe Frankie was born some¬ 
where out west among the Shires, but his father had to 
run for it when Frankie was a baby, because the 
neighbours was wishful to kill him, d’ye see ? He 
run to Chatham, old Parson Drake did, an’ Frankie 
was brought up in a old hulks of a ship moored in the 
Medway river, same as it might ha’ been the Rother. 
Brought up at sea, you might say, before he could walk 
on land — nigh Chatham in Kent. And ain’t Kent 
back-door to Sussex? And don’t that make Frankie 
Sussex? O’course it do. Devon man! Bah! Those 


SIMPLE SIMON 293 

West Country boats they’re always fishin’ in other 
folks’ water.’ 

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Dan. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘No call to be sorry. You’ve been misled. I met 
Frankie at Rye Port when my Uncle, that was the ship¬ 
builder there, pushed me off his wharf-edge on to 
Frankie’s ship. Frankie had put in from Chatham 
with his rudder splutted, and a man’s arm — Moon’s 
that ’ud be — broken at the tiller. “Take this boy 
aboard an’ drown him,” says my Uncle, “and I’ll 
mend your rudder-piece for love.”’ 

‘What did your Uncle want you drowned for?’ said 
Una. 

‘That was only his fashion of say-so, same as Mus’ 
Robin. I’d a foolishness in my head that ships could 
be builded out of iron. Yes — iron ships! I’d made 
me a liddle toy one of iron plates beat out thin — and 
she floated a wonder! But my Uncle, bein’ a burgess 
of Rye, and a shipbuilder, he ’prenticed me to Frankie 
in the fetchin’ trade, to cure this foolishness.’ 

‘What was the fetchin’ trade?’ Dan interrupted. 

‘Fetchin’ poor Flemishers and Dutchmen out o’ the 
Low Countries into England. The King o’ Spain, 
d’ye see, he was burnin’ ’em in those parts, for to make 
’em Papishers, so Frankie he fetched ’em away to our 
parts, and a risky trade it was. His master wouldn’t 
never touch it while he lived, but he left his ship to 
Frankie when he died, and Frankie turned her into 
this fttchin’ trade. Outrageous cruel hard work—• 
on besom black nights bulting back and forth off they 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


294- 

Dutch sands with shoals on all sides, and having to 
hark out for the frish - frish - frish - like of a Spanish 
galliwopses’ oars creepin’ up on ye. Frankie ’ud 
have the tiller, and Moon he’d peer forth at the bows, 
our lantern under his skirts, till the boat we was lookin’ 
for ’ud blurt up out o’ the dark, and we’d lay hold and 
haul aboard whoever ’twas — man, woman, or babe —• 
an’ round we’d go again, the wind bewling like a kite 
in our riggin’s, and they’d drop into the hold and praise 
God for happy deliverance till they was all sick. 

‘I had nigh a year at it, an’ we must have fetched 
off — oh, a hundred pore folk, I reckon. Outrageous 
bold, too, Frankie growed to be! Outrageous cunning 
he was! Once we was as near as nothing nipped by a 
tall ship off Tergo Sands in a snowstorm. She had the 
wind of us, and spooned straight before it, shooting all 
bow guns. Frankie fled inshore smack for the beach, 
till he was atop of the first breakers. Then he hove 
his anchor out, which nigh tore our bows off, but 
it twitched us round end-for-end into the wind, d’ye 
see, an’ we clawed off them sands like a drunk man 
rubbin’ along a tavern bench. When we could see, 
the Spanisher was laid flat along in the breakers with 
the snows whitening on his wet belly. He thought 
he could go where Frankie went.’ 

‘What happened to the crew ?’ said Una. 

‘We didn’t stop,’ Simon answered. ‘There was h. 
very liddle new baby in our hold, and the mother, she 
wanted to get to some dry bed middlin’ quick. We 
runned into Dover, and said nothing.’ 


SIMPLE SIMON 


295 


‘Was Sir Francis Drake very much pleased ?’ 

‘Heart alive, maid, he’d no head to his name in 
those days. He was just a outrageous, valiant, crop¬ 
haired, tutt-mouthed boy roarin’ up an’ down the 
narrer seas, with his beard not yet quilled out. He 
made a laughing-stock of everything all day, and he’d 
hold our lives in the bight of his arm all the besom- 
black night among they Dutch sands; and we’d ha’ 
jumped overside to behove him any one time, all of 
us.’ 

‘Then why did you try to poison him ?’ Una asked 
wickedly, and Simon hung his head like a shy child. 

‘Oh, that was when he set me to make a pudden, 
for because our cook was hurted. I done my utter¬ 
most, but she all fetched adrift like in the bag, an’ the 
more I biled the bits of her, the less she favoured any 
fashion o’ pudden. Moon he chawed and chammed 
his piece, and Frankie chawed and chammed his’n, 
and — no words to it — he took me by the ear an’ 
walked me out over the bow-end, an’ him an’ Moon 
hove the pudden at me on the bowsprit gub by gub, 
something cruel hard!’ Simon rubbed his hairy 
cheek. 

“‘Nex’ time you bring me anything,” says Frankie, 
“you bring me cannon-shot an’ I’ll know what I’m 

getting.” But as for poisoning-’ He stopped, 

the children laughed so. 

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Una. ‘Oh, Simon, 
we do like you!’ 

‘I was always likeable with children.’ His smile 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


296 

crinkled up through the hair round his eyes. ‘Simple 
Simon, they used to call me through our yard gates/ 

‘ Did Sir Francis mock you ?’ Dan asked. 

‘Ah, no. He was gentle born. Laugh he did—he 
was always laughing — but not so as to hurt a feather. 
An' I loved ’en. I loved ’en before England knew 
’en, or Queen Bess she broke his heart/ 

‘ But he hadn’t really done anything when you knew 
him, had he?’ Una insisted. ‘Armadas and those 
things, I mean/ 

Simon pointed to the scars and scrapes left by 
Cattiwow’s great log. ‘You tell me that that good 
ship’s timber never done nothing against winds and 
weathers since her upspringing, and I’ll confess ye 
that young Frankie never done nothing neither. Noth¬ 
ing ? He adventured and suffered and made shift on 
they Dutch sands as much in any one month as ever 
he had occasion for to do in a half-year on the high seas 
afterwards. An’ what was his tools ? A coaster boat 
— a liddle box o’ walty plankin’ an’ some few fathom 
feeble rope held together an’ made able by him sole. 
He drawed our spirits up in our bodies same as a 
chimney-towel draws a fire. ’Twas in him, and it 
corned out all times and shapes. 

‘I wonder did he ever ’magine what he was going 
to be? Tell himself stories about it?’ said Dan 
with a flush. 

‘I expect so. We mostly do — even when we’re 
grown. But bein’ Frankie, he took good care to find 
out beforehand what his fortune might be. Had I 


SIMPLE SIMON 


297 

rightly ought to tell ’em this piece?’ Simon turned 
to Puck, who nodded. 

‘My mother, she was just a fair woman, but my 
Aunt, her sister, she had gifts by inheritance laid up 
in her,’ Simon began. 

‘Oh, that’ll never do,’ cried Puck, for the children 
stared blankly. ‘ Do you remember what Robin 
promised to the Widow Whitgift so long as her blood 
and get lasted ?’ 1 

‘Yes. There was always to be one of them that 
could see farther through a millstone than most,’ 
Dan answered promptly. 

‘Well, Simon’s Aunt’s mother,’ said Puck slowly, 
‘married the Widow’s blind son on the Marsh, and 
Simon’s Aunt was the one chosen to see farthest 
through mill stones. Do you understand?’ 

‘That was what I was gettin’ at,’ said Simon, ‘but 
you’re so desperate quick. My Aunt she knew what 
was coming to people. My Uncle being a burgess 
of Rye, he counted all such things odious, and my 
Aunt she couldn’t be got to practise her gifts hardly 
at all, because it hurted her head for a week afterwards; 
but when Frankie heard she had ’em, he was all for 
nothing till she foretold on him — till she looked in his 
hand to tell his fortune, d’ye see ? One time we was at 
Rye she come aboard with my other shirt and some 
apples, and he fair beazled the life out of her about it. 

‘“Oh, you’ll be twice wed, and die childless,” she 
says, and pushes his hand away. 

1 See ‘Dymchurch Flit’ in Puck 0/ Pook’s Bill. 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


298 

“‘That’s the woman’s part/’ he says. “What’ll 
come to me — to me?” an’ he thrusts it back under 
her nose. 

‘“Gold—gold, past belief or counting,” she says. 
“Let go ’o me, lad.” 

‘“Sink the gold!” he says. “What’ll Do, mother ?” 
He coaxed her like no woman could well withstand. 
I’ve seen him with ’em —- even when they were sea-sick. 

“‘If you will have it,” she says at last, “you shall 
have it. You’ll do a many things, and eating and 
drinking with a dead man beyond the world’s end 
will be the least of them. For you’ll open a road from 
the East unto the West, and back again, and you’ll 
bury your heart with your best friend by that road¬ 
side; and the road you open none shall shut so long 
as you’re let lie quiet in your grave.” 1 

“‘And if I’m not ?” he says. 

‘“Why then,” she says, “Sim’s iron ships will be 
sailing on dry land. Now ha’ done with this foolish¬ 
ness. Where’s Sim’s shirt?” 

‘He couldn’t fetch no more out of her, and when 
we came up from the cabin, he stood mazed like by 
the tiller, playing with a apple. 

“‘My sorrow!” says my Aunt, “D’ye see that? 
The great world lying in his hand, liddle and round 
like a apple.” 

“‘Why, ’tis one you gived him,” I says. 

1 The old lady’s prophecy is in a fair way to come true, for when the Panama 
Canal is finished, one end of it will open into the very bay where Sir Francis Drake 
was buried. Then ships will be taken through the Canal, and the road ro»md 
Cane Horn which Sir Franc ,v will be abandoned. 





• **” *«- . 




^You ’ll do many things, and eating and drinking with a dead 
man beyond the world’s end will be the least of them ” 











SIMPLE SIMON 


299 

“‘To be sure,” she says. “’Tis just a apple,” and 
she went ashore with her hand to her head. It always 
hurted her to show her gifts. 

‘Him and me puzzled over that talk plenty. It 
sticked in his mind quite extravagant. The very 
next time we slipped out for some fetchin’ trade, we 
met Mus’ Stenning’s boat over by Calais sands; and 
he warned us that the Spanishers had shut down 
all their Dutch ports against us English, and their 
galliwopses was out picking up our boats like flies 
off hogs’ backs. Mus’ Stenning he runs for Shore- 
ham, but Frankie held on a piece, knowin’ that Mus’ 
Stenning was jealous of our good trade. Over by 
Dunkirk a great gor-bellied Spanisher, with the Cross 
on his sails, came rampin’ at us. We left him. We 
left him all they bare seas to conquest in. 

“‘Looks like this road was going to be shut pretty 
soon,” says Frankie, humouring her at the tiller. ‘I’ll 
have to open that other one your Aunt foretold of.” 

“‘The Spanisher’s crowdin’ down on us middlin’ 
quick,” I says. 

‘“No odds,” says Frankie, “he’ll have the inshore 
tide against him. Did your Aunt say I was to lie 
quiet in my grave forever ?” 

“‘Till my iron ships sailed dry land,” I says. 

“‘That’s foolishness,” he says. “Who cares where 
Frankie Drake makes a hole in the water now or 
twenty years from now ?” 

‘The Spanisher kept muckin’ on more and more 
I told him so. 


canvas. 




300 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘“He’s feelin’ the tide,” was all he says. “If he 
was among Tergoes Sands with this wind, we’d be 
picking his bones proper. I’d give my heart to have 
all their tall ships there some night before a north 
gale, and me to windward. There’d be gold in my 
hands then. Did your Aunt say she saw the world 
settin’ in my hand, Sim ?” 

‘“Yes, but ’twas a apple,” says I, and he laughed 
like he always did at me. “Do you ever feel minded 
to jump overside and be done with everything?” 
he asks after a while. 

‘“No. What water comes aboard is too wet as 
’tis,” I says. “The Spanisher’s going about.” 

“‘I told you,” says he, never looking back. ‘He’ll 
give us the Pope’s Blessing as he swings. Come down 
off that rail. There’s no knowin’ where stray shots may 
hit.” So I came down off the rail, and leaned against 
it, and the Spanisher he ruffled round in the wind, 
and his port-lids opened all red inside. 

“‘Now what’ll happen to my road if they don’t let 
me lie quiet in my grave?” he says. “Does your 
Aunt mean there’s two roads to be found and kept 
open — or what does she mean ? I don’t like that 
talk about t’other road. D’you believe in your iron 
ships, Sim ?” 

‘He knowed I did, so I only nodded, and he nodded 
back again. 

“‘ Anybody but me ’ud call you a fool, Sim,” he says. 
“Lie down. Here comes the Pope’s Blessing!” 

‘The Spanisher gave us his broadside as he went 



SIMPLE SIMON 301 

about. They all fell short except one that smack- 
smooth hit the rail behind my back, an’ I felt most won¬ 
derful cold. 

“‘Be you hit anywhere to signify?” he says. 
“Come over to me.” 

‘“Oh, Lord, Mus’ Drake,” I says, “my legs won’t 
move,” and that was the last I spoke for months.’ 

‘Why? What had happened?’ cried Dan and 
Una together. 

‘The rail had jarred me in here like/ Simon reached 
behind him clumsily. ‘From my shoulders down I 
didn’t act no shape. Frankie carried me piggy-back 
to my Aunt’s house, and I lay bedrid and tongue-tied 
while she rubbed me day and night, month in and 
month out. She had faith in rubbing with the hands. 
P’raps she put some of her gifts into it, too. Last 
of all, something loosed itself in my pore back, and lo! 
I was whole restored again, but kitten-feeble. 

“‘Where’s Frankie?” I says, thinking I’d been a 
longish while abed. 

‘ “ Down-wind amongst the Dons — months ago,” 
says my Aunt. 

‘ “ When can I go after ’en ? ” I says. 

‘“Your duty’s to your town and trade now,” says 
she. “Your Uncle he died last Michaelmas and he’ve 
left you and me the yard. So no more iron ships, 
mind ye.” 

‘“What?” I says. “And you the only one that 
beleft in ’em!” 

‘“Maybe I do still,” she says, “but I’m a woman 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


302 

before Em a Whitgift, and wooden ships is what 
England needs us to build. I lay it on ye to do so/ 

‘That’s why I’ve never teched iron since that day — 
not to build a toy ship of. Eve never even drawed 
a draft of one for my pleasure of evenings/ Simon 
smiled down on them all. 

‘Whitgift blood is terrible resolute — on the she 
side/ said Puck. 

‘Did you ever see Sir Francis Drake again?’ Dan 
asked. 

‘With one thing and another, and my being made 
a burgess of Rye, I never clapped eyes on him for the 
next twenty years. Oh, I had the news of his mighty 
doings the world over. They was the very same 
bold, cunning shifts and passes he’d worked with 
beforetimes off they Dutch sands, but, naturally, 
folk took more note of them. When Queen Bess 
made him knight, he sent my Aunt a dried orange 
stuffed with spiceries to smell to. She cried out 
rageous on it. She blamed herself for her foretellings* 
having set him on his won’erful road; but I reckon 
he’d ha’ gone that way all notwithstanding. Curious 
how close she foretelled it! The world in his hand 
like an apple, an’ he burying his best friend, ’Mus 
Doughty-’ 

Never mind for ’Mus Doughty,’ Puck interrupted. 
‘Tell us where you met Sir Francis next.’ 

Oh, ha! That was the year I was made a burgess 
of Rye — the same year which King Philip sent his 
ships to take England without Frankie’s leave.’ 


SIMPLE SIMON 


3°3 


‘The Armada!’ said Dan contentedly. ‘I waL 
hoping that would come.’ 

‘I knowed Frankie would never let ’em smell London 
»moke, but plenty good men in Rye was two-three 
minded about the upshot. ’Twas the noise of the 
gun-fire tarrified us. The wind favoured it our way 
from off behind the Isle of Wight. It made a mutter 
like, which growed and growed, and by the end of a 
week women was shruckin’ in the streets. Then they 
come sliddering past Fairlight in a great smoky pat 
varnbrished with red gun-fire, and our ships flying 
forth and ducking in again. The smoke-pat sliddered 
over to the French shore, so I knowed Frankie was 
edging the Spanishers toward they Dutch sands where 
he was master. I says to my Aunt, “The smoke’s 
thinning out. I lay Frankie’s just about scrapin’ his 
hold for a few last rounds shot. ’Tis time for me to 
.‘go.’ 

‘“Never in them clothes,” she says. “Do on the 
doublet I bought you to be made burgess in, and don’t 
you shame this day.” 

‘So I mucked it on, and my chain, and my stiffed 
Dutch breeches and all. 

‘“I be cornin’, too,” she says from her chamber, 
and forth she come pavisanding like a peacock — stuff, 
ruff, stomacher and all. She was a notable woman. 

‘But how did you go? You haven’t told us,’ said 
Una. 

‘In my own ship — but half-share was my Aunt’s. 
In the Antony of Rye to be sure; and not empty-handed- 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


304 

Ed been loadin’ her for three days with the pick of 
our yard. We was ballasted on cannon-shot of all three 
sizes; and iron rods and straps for his carpenters; 
and a nice passel of clean three-inch oak planking and 
hide breech-ropes for his cannon, and gubs of good 
oakum, and bolts of canvas, and all the sound rope 
in the yard. What else could I ha’ done ? / knowed 

what he’d need most after a week’s such work. I’m 
a shipbuilder, little maid. 

‘We’d a fair slant o’ wind off Dungeness, and we 
crept on till it fell light airs and puffed out. The 
Spanishers was all in a huddle over by Calais, and our 
ships was strawed about mending ’emselves like dogs 
lickin’ bites. Now and then a Spanisher would fire 
from a low port, and the ball ’ud troll across the flat 
swells, but both sides was finished fightin’ for that 
tide. 

‘The first ship we foreslowed on, her breast-works 
was crushed in, an’ men was shorin’ ’em up. She 
said nothing. The next was a black pinnace, his 
pumps clackin’ middling quick, and he said nothing. 
But the third, mending shot holes, he spoke out plenty. 
I asked him where Mus’ Drake might be, and a shiny- 
suited man on the poop looked down into us, and saw 
what we carried. 

“‘Lay alongside, you!” he says. “We’ll take that 
all.” 

Tis for Mus’ Drake,” I says, keeping away lest 
his size should lee the wind out of my sails. 

'“Hi! Ho! Hither 1 We’re Lord High Admiral 


SIMPLE SIMON 305 

of England! Come alongside, or we’ll hang ye,”he 
says. 

‘’Twas none of my affairs who he was if he wasn’t 
Frankie, and while he talked so hot I slipped behind 
a green-painted ship with her top-sides splintered. We 
was all in the middest of’em then. 

‘“Hi! Hoi!” the green ship says. “Come along¬ 
side, honest man, and I’ll buy your load. I’m Fenner 
that fought the seven Portugals — clean out of shot 
or bullets. Frankie knows me.” 

‘“Ay, but I don’t,” I says, and I slacked nothing. 

‘He was a masterpiece. Seein’ I was for goin’ on, 
he hails a Bridport hoy beyond us and shouts, 
“George! Oh, George! Wing that duck. He’s 
fat!” An’, true as we’re all here, that squatty Brid¬ 
port boat rounds to acrost our bows, intending to stop 
up by means o’ shooting. 

‘My Aunt looks over our rail. “George,” she says 
“you finish with your enemies afore you begin on your 
friends.” 

‘Him that was laying the liddle swivel-gun at us 
sweeps off his hat an’ calls her Queen Bess, and asks 
if she was selling liquor to pore dry sailors. My 
Aunt answered him quite a piece. She was a notable 
woman. 

‘Then he come up —his long pennant trailing over¬ 
side— his waistcloths and netting tore all to pieces 
where the Spanishers had grappled, and his sides 
black-smeared with their gun-blasts like candle-smoke 
in a bottle. We hooked on to a lower port and hung. 





REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


306 

“‘Oh, Mils’ Drake! Mus’ Drake,” I calls up. 

‘He stood on the great anchor cathead, his shirt 
open to the middle, and his face shining like the sun. 

‘“Why, Sim!” he says. Just like that — after 
twenty year! “Sim,” he says, “what brings you?” 

‘“Pudden,” I says, not knowing whether to laugh 
or cry. “You told me to bring cannon-shot next 
time, an’ I’ve brought ’em.” 

‘He saw we had. He ripped out a fathom and a 
half o’ brimstone Spanish, and he swung down on our 
rail, and he kissed me before all his fine young cap¬ 
tains. His men was swarming out of the lower ports 
ready to unload us. When he saw how I’d considered 
all his likely wants, he kissed me again. 

“‘ Here’s a friend that sticketh closer than a brother!” 
he says. “Mistress,” he says to my Aunt, “all you 
foretold on me was true. I’ve opened that road from the 
East to the West, and I’ve buried my heart beside it.” 

‘“I know,” she says. “That’s why I be come.” 

‘“But ye never foretold this”; he points to both 
they great fleets. 

‘“This don’t seem to me to make much odds com¬ 
pared to what happens to a man,” she says. “Do 
it?” 

‘“Certain sure a man forgets to remember when 
he’s proper mucked up with work. Sim,” he says 
to me, “we must shift every living Spanisher round 
Dunkirk corner on to our Dutch Sands before morning. 
The wind ’ll come out of the North after this calm- 
same as it used — and then they’re our meat,” 


SIMPLE SIMON 


307 

’'“Amen,” says I. “I’ve brought you what I could 
scutchel up of odds and ends. Be you hit anywhere 
to signify ? ” 

‘“Oh, our folk attend to all that when we’ve time/’ 
he says. He turns to talk to my Aunt, while his men 
flew the stuff out of our hold. I think I saw old Moon 
amongst ’em, but we was too busy to more than nod 
like. Yet the Spanishers was going to prayers with 
their bells and candles before we’d cleaned out the 
Antony. Twenty-two ton o’ useful stuff I’d fetched 
him. 

‘“Now Sim,” says my Aunt, “no more devouring 
of Mus’ Drake’s time. He’s sending us home in the 
Bridport hoy. I want to speak to them young 
springalds again.” 

‘“But here’s our ship all ready and swept,” I says. 

“‘Swep’ an’ garnished,” says Frankie. “I’m going 
to fill her with devils in the likeness o’ pitch and sul¬ 
phur. We must shift the Dons round Dunkirk 
corner, and if shot can’t do it, we’ll send down 
j fireships.” 

‘“I’ve given him my share of the Antony ,” says 
my Aunt. “What do you reckon to do about yours ?” 

‘“She offered it,” said Frankie, laughing. 

‘“She wouldn’t have if I’d overheerd her,” I says. 
“ Because I’d have offered my share first.” Then I told 
him how the Antony's sails was best trimmed to drive 
before the wind, and seeing he was full of occupa¬ 
tions we went acrost to that Bridport hoy, and 
left him. 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


3°8 

‘But Frankie was gentle-born, d’ye see, and that sort 
they never overlook any folks’ dues. 

‘When the hoy passed under his stern, he stood bare¬ 
headed on the poop same as if my Aunt had been his 
Queen, and his musicianers played “Mary Ambree” 
on their silver trumpets quite a long while. Heart 
alive, little maid! I never meaned to make you look 
sorrowful- 9 


Bunny Lewknor in his sackcloth petticoats burst 
through the birch scrub wiping his forehead. 

‘We’ve got the stick to rights now! She’ve been a 
whole hatful o’ trouble. You come an’ ride her home, 
Mus' Dan and Miss Una!’ 

They found the proud wood-gang at the foot of the 
slope, with the log double-chained on the tug. 

‘Cattiwow, what are you going to do with it?’ said 
Dan, as they straddled the thin part. 

‘She’s going down to Rye to make a keel for a 
Lowestoft fishin’ boat, I’ve heard. Hold tight!’ 

Cattiwow cracked his whip, and the great log dipped 
and tilted, and leaned and dipped again, exactly like 
a stately ship upon the high seas. 


FRANKIE’S TRADE 


Old Horn to All Atlantic said: 

(A-hay 0 ! To me 0 !) 

‘Now where did Frankie learn his trade? 

For he ran me down with a three-reef mains’le. 
(All round the Horn!) 

Atlantic answered :— ‘Not from me! 

You’d better ask the cold North Sea, 

For he ran me down under all plain canvas/ 
(All round the Horn!) 

The North Sea answered: — ‘He’s my man 
For he came to me when he began — 

Frankie Drake in an open coaster.’ 

(All round the Sands!) 

‘ I caught him young and I used him sore, 

So you never shall startle Frankie more, 
Without capsizing Earth and her waters/ 

(All round the Sands!) 

‘I did not favour him at all, 

I made him pull and I made him haul — 

And stand his trick with the common sailors. 
(All round the Sands!) 

309 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


3 10 

‘I froze him stiff and I fogged him blind, 

And kicked him home with his road to find 
By what he could see of a three-day snow-storm. 

(All round the Sands!) 

‘I learned him his trade o’ winter nights, 

’Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights 
On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing. 

{All round the Sands!) 

‘ Before his beard began to shoot, 

I showed him the length of the Spaniard’s foot — 
And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later. 

{All round the Sands!) 

‘If there’s a risk which you can make, 

That’s worse than he was used to take 
Nigh every week in the way of his business: 

{All round the Sands!) 

‘If there’s a trick that you can try, 

Which he hasn’t met in time gone by. 

Not once or twice, but ten times over; 

{All round the Sands!) 

‘If you can teach him aught that’s new, 

{A-hay 0 ! To me 0 !) 

I’ll give you Bruges and Niewport too, 

And the ten tall churches that stand between ’em. 
Storm along my gallant Captains! 

{All round the Horn!) 


The Tree of Justice 
















THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW 


About the time that taverns shut 
And men can buy no beer, 

Two lads went up to the keepers’ hut 
To steal Lord Pelham’s deer. 

Night and the liquor was in their heads —> 
They laughed and talked no bounds, 

Till they waked the keepers on their beds, 
And the keepers loosed the hounds. 

They had killed a hart, they had killed a hind 
Ready to carry away, 

When they heard a whimper down the wind 
And they heard a bloodhound bay. 

They took and ran across the fern, 

Their crossbows in their hand, 

Till they met a man with a green lantern 
That called and bade ’em stand. 

*What are ye doing, O Flesh and Blood, 

And what’s your foolish will, 

That you must break into Minepit Wood 
And wake the Folk of the Hill?’ 



3M- 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


‘Oh, we’ve broke into Lord Pelham’s park. 
And killed Lord Pelham’s deer, 

And if ever you heard a little dog bark 
You’ll know why we come here! 

‘We ask you let us go our way, 

As fast as we can flee, 

For if ever you heard a bloodhound bay 
You’ll know how pressed we be.’ 

‘Oh, lay your crossbows on the bank 
And drop the knife from your hand, 

And though the hounds are at your flank 
I’ll save you where you stand!’ 

They laid their crossbows on the bank, 

They threw their knives in the wood, 

And the ground before them opened and sank 
And saved ’em where they stood. 

‘Oh, what’s the roaring in our ears 
That strikes us well-nigh dumb ?’ 

“Oh, that is just how things appears 
According as they come.’ 

‘What are the stars before our eyes 
That strike us well-nigh blind ?’ 

‘Oh, that is just how things arise 
According as you find.’ 


THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW 315 

‘And why’s our bed so hard to the bones 
Excepting where it’s cold ?’ 

Oh, that’s because it is precious stones 
Excepting where ’tis gold. 

‘Think it over as you stand 
For I tell you without fail 

If you haven’t got into Fairyland 
You’re not in Lewes Gaol.’ 

All night long they thought of it 
And, come the dawn, they saw 

They’d tumbled into a great old pit, 

At the bottom of Minepit Shaw. 

And the keepers’ hound had followed ’em close 
And broke her neck in the fall; 

So they picked up their knives and their crossbows 
And buried the dog. That’s all. 

But whether the man was a poacher too 
Or a Pharisee so bold — 

I reckon there’s more things told than are true. 
And more things true than are told. 






THE TREE OF JUSTICE 


It was a warm, dark winter day with the Sou'-West 
wind singing through Dallington Forest, and the 
woods below the Beacon. The children set out after 
dinner to find old Hobden, who had a three months’ 
job in the Rough at the back of Pound’s Wood. He 
had promised to get them a dormouse in its nest. 
The bright leaf still clung to the beech-coppice; the 
long chestnut leaves lay orange on the ground, and the 
rides were speckled with scarlet-lipped sprouting 
acorns. They worked their way by their own short 
cuts to the edge of Pound’s Wood, and heard a horse’s 
feet just as they came to the beech where Ridley the 
keeper hangs up the vermin. The poor little fluffy 
bodies dangled from the branches — some perfectly 
good, but most of them dried to twisted strips. 

‘Three more owls,’ said Dan, counting. ‘Two 
stoats, four jays, and a kestrel. That’s ten since last 
week. Ridley’s a beast.’ 

‘In my time this sort of tree bore heavier fruit.’ 
Sir Richard Dalyngridge 1 reined up his grey horse, 
Swallow, in the ride behind them. ‘What play do 
you make ?’ he asked. 

1 This is the Norman Knight they met the year before in Puck ofPook’s Hill. See 
* Young Men at the Manor,’ ‘ The Knights of the Joyous Venture,’ and ‘ Old MeD 
at Pevensey,’ in that book. 


317 



REWARDS AND FAIRIES. 


3 j 8 

‘Nothing, sir. We’re looking for old Hobden,* 
Dan replied. ‘He promised to get us a sleeper.’ 

‘Sleeper ? A dormeuse do you say ?’ 

‘Yes, a dormouse, sir.’ 

‘I understand. I passed a woodman on the low 
grounds. Come!’ 

He wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through 
an opening to the patch of beech-stubs, chestnut, 
hazel, and birch that old Hobden would turn into fire¬ 
wood, hop-holes, pea-boughs, and house faggots 
before Spring. The old man was as busy as a beaver. 

Something laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole 
out, his finger on his lip. 

‘Look!’ he whispered. ‘Along between the spindle 
trees! Ridley has been there this half-hour.’ 

The children followed his point, and saw Ridley 
the keeper in an old dry ditch, watching Hobden as 
a cat watches a mouse. 

‘Huh!’ cried Una. ‘Hobden always ’tends to 
his wires before breakfast. He puts his rabbits into 
the faggots he’s allowed to take home. He’ll tell us 
abour ’em to-morrow.’ 

‘We had the same breed in my day,’ Sir Richard 
replied, and moved off quietly, Puck at his bridle, the 
children on either side between the close-trimmed 
beech stuff. 

‘What did you do to them?’ said Dan, as they 
re-passed Ridley’s terrible tree. 

‘That!’ Sir Richard jerked his head toward the 
dangling owls. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 319 

‘Not he!’ said Puck. ‘There was never enough 
brute Norman in you to hang a man for taking a buck/ 

‘I — I cannot abide to hear their widows screech. 
But why am I on horseback while you are afoot?’ 
He dismounted lightly, tapped Swallow on the chest, 
so that the wise thing backed instead of turning in the 
narrow ride, and put himself at the head of the little 
procession. He walked as though all the woods 
belonged to him. ‘I have often told my friends/ he 
went on, ‘that Red William the King was not the 
only Norman found dead in a forest while he hunted/ 

‘D’you mean William Rufus ? ’ said Dan. 

‘Yes/ said Puck, kicking a clump of red toadstools 
off a dead log. 

‘For example, there was a Knight new from Nor¬ 
mandy/ Sir Richard went on, ‘to whom Henry our 
King granted a manor in Kent near by. He chose 
to hang his forester’s son the day before a deer-hunt 
that he gave to pleasure the King/ 

‘Now when would that be?’ said Puck, and 
scratched an ear thoughtfully. 

‘The summer of the year King Henry broke his 
brother Robert of Normandy at Tenchebrai fight. 
Our ships were even then at Pevensey loading for the 
war. 

‘What happened to the knight ?’ Dan asked. 

‘They found him pinned to an ash, three arrows 
through his leather coat. I should have worn mail 
that day/ 

‘And did you see him pinned up?’ Dan continued. 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


320 

‘Nay, I was with De Aquila at Pevensey, counting 
horse-shoes, and arrow sheaves, and ale-barrels into 
the holds of the ships. The army only waited for our 
King to lead them against Robert in Normandy; but 
he sent word to De Aquila that he would hunt with 
him here before he set out for France/ 

‘Why did the King want to hunt so particularly?’ 
Una demanded. 

‘If he had gone straight to France after the Kentish 
knight was killed, men would have said he feared being 
slain like the knight. It was his duty to show himself 
debonnair to his English people as it was De Aquila’s 
duty to see that he took no harm while he did it. But 
it was a great burden! De Aquila, Hugh and I ceased 
work on the ships, and scoured all the Honour of the 
Eagle — all De Aquila’s lands — to make a fit, and* 
above all, a safe sport for our King. Look!’ 

The ride twisted, and came out on the top of Pound’s 
Hill Wood. Sir Richard pointed to the swells of 
beautiful, dappled Dallington, that showed like a 
woodcock’s breast up the valley. ‘Ye know the 
forest?’ said he. 

‘You ought to see the blue-bells there in Spring!* 
said Una. 

‘I have seen,’ said Sir Richard, gazing, and stretched 
out his hand. ‘Hugh’s work and mine was first t* 
move the deer gently from all parts into Dallington 
yonder, and there to hold them till the King came. 
Next, we must choose some three hundred beaters to 
drive ths deer to the stands within bowshot of the King. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 321 

Here was our trouble! In the mellay of a deer-drive a 
Saxon peasant and a Norman King may come over 
close to each other. The conquered do not love their 
conquerors all at once. So we needed sure men, for 
whom their village or kindred would answer in life, 
cattle and land if any harm come to the King. Ye 
see ? ’ 

‘If one of the beaters shot the King,’ said Puck, 
‘Sir Richard wanted to be able to punish that man’s 
village. Then the village would take care to send a 
good man.’ 

‘So! So it was. But, lest our work should be too 
easy, the King had done such a dread justice over at 
Salehurst, for the killing of the Kentish knight (twenty- 
six men he hanged, as I heard), that our folk were 
half-mad with fear before we began. It is easier to 
dig out a badger gone to earth than a Saxon gone 
dumb-sullen. And atop of their misery the old rumour 
waked that Harold the Saxon was alive and would bring 
them deliverance from us Normans. This has hap¬ 
pened every autumn since Hastings fight.’ 

‘But King Harold was killed at Hastings,’ said Una. 

‘So it was said, and so it was believed by us Nor¬ 
mans, but our Saxons always believed he would come 
again That rumour did not make our work any more 
easy.’ 

Sir Richard strode on down the far slope of the 
wood, where the trees thin out. It was fascinating 
to watch how he managed his long spurs among the 
lumps of blackened ling. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


322 

‘But we did it! , he said. ‘After all, a woman is 
as good as a man to beat the woods, and the mere 
word that deer are afoot makes cripples and crones 
young again. De Aquila laughed when Hugh told him 
over the list of beaters. Half were women; and many 
of the rest were clerks — Saxon and Norman priests. 

‘Hugh and I had not time to laugh for eight days, 
till De Aquila, as Lord of Pevensey, met our King and 
led him to the first shooting stand — by the Mill on 
the edge of the forest. Hugh and I — it was no work 
for hot heads or heavy hands — lay with our beaters 
on the skirts of Dallington to watch both them and the 
deer. When De Aquila’s great horn blew we went 
forward, a line half a league long. Oh, to see the fat 
clerks, their gowns tucked up, puffing and roaring, 
and the sober millers dusting the undergrowth with 
their staves; and, like as not, between them a Saxon 
wench, hand in hand with her man, shrilling like a 
kite as she ran, and leaping high through the fern, 
all for joy of the sport.’ 

‘ Ah ! How ! Ah ! How ! How-ah ! Sa-how-ahV 
Puck bellowed without warning, and Swallow bounded 
forward, ears cocked and nostrils cracking. 

'HaUaUal-lal-la-hai-iel' Sir Richard answered in 
a high clear shout. 

The two voices joined in swooping circles of sound, 
and a heron rose out of a red osier bed below them, 
circling as though he kept time to the outcry. Swallow 
quivered and swished his glorious tail. They stopped 
together on the same note. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 323 

A noarse shout answered them across the bare woods. 

‘That’s old Hobden/ said Una. 

‘Small blame to him. It is in his blood/ said Puck. 
‘Did your beaters cry so, Sir Richard ?’ 

‘My faith, they forgot all else. (Steady, Swallow, 
steady!) They forgot where the King and his people 
waited to shoot. They followed the deer to the very 
edge of the open till the first flight of wild arrows from 
the stands flew fair over them. 

‘I cried, “’Ware shot! ’Ware shot!” and a knot 
of young knights new from Normandy, that had 
strayed away from the Grand Stand, turned about, 
and in mere sport loosed off at our line shouting: 
“’Ware Senlac arrows! ’Ware Senlac arrows!” A 
jest, I grant you, but too sharp. One of our beaters 
answered in Saxon: “’Ware New Forest arrows! 
’Ware Red William’s arrow!” so I judged it time to 
end the jests, and when the boys saw my old mail 
gown (for, to shoot with strangers I count the same 
as war), they ceased shooting. So that was smoothed 
over, and we gave our beaters ale to wash down their 
anger. They were excusable! We — they had 
sweated to show our guests good sport, and our reward 
was a flight of hunting-arrows which no man loves, 
and worse, a churl’s jibe over hard-fought, fair-lost 
Hastings fight. So before the next beat, Hugh and I 
assembled and called the beaters over by name, to 
steady them. The greater part we knew, but among 
the Netherfield men I saw an old, old man, in the 
dress of a pilgrim. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


3*4 

‘ The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known 
by repute for twenty years as a witless man that 
journeyed without rest to all the shrines of England. 
The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. 
We Normans rest our chin on our left palm. 

'“Who answers for him?” said I. “If he fails 
in his duty, who will pay his fine ?” 

‘“Who will pay my fine?” the pilgrim said. “I 
have asked that of all the Saints in England 
these forty years, less three months and nine 
days! They have not answered!” When he lifted 
his thin face I saw he was one-eyed, and frail as a 
rushlight. 

‘“Nay but, Father,” I said, “to whom hast thou 
commended thyself?” He shook his head, so I 
spoke in Saxon: “ Whose man art thou ?” 

“‘I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King’s 
Jester,” said he after a while. “I am, as I suppose, 
Rahere’s man.” 

‘ He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, com¬ 
ing up, read it. 

‘It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere’s man, and 
that Rahere was the King’s Jester. There was Latin 
writ at the back. 

“‘What a plague conjuration’s here?” said Hugh, 
turning it over. “ Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?” 

‘“Black Magic,” said the Clerk of Netherfield 
(he had been a monk at Battle). “They say Rahere is 
more of a priest than a fool and more of a wizard than 
either. Here’s Rahere’s name writ, and there’s 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 325 

Rahere’s red cockscomb sign drawn below for such 
as cannot read.” He looked slyly at me. 

‘“Then read it,” said I, “and show thy learning.” 
He was a vain little man, and he gave it us after much 
mouthing. 

‘“The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the 
Sorcerer, says: ‘When thou art once dead, and Minos 
(which is a heathen judge) has doomed thee, neither 
cunning, nor speechcraft, nor good works will restore 
thee!’ A terrible thing! It denies any mercy to a 
man’s soul!” 

“‘Does it serve?” said the pilgrim, plucking at 
Hugh’s cloak. “Oh, man of the King’s blood, does 
it cover me ?” 

‘Hugh was of Earl Godwin’s blood, and all Sussex 
knew it, though no Saxon dared call him kingly in 
a Norman’s hearing. There can be but one King. 

“‘It serves,” said Hugh. “But the day will be 
long and hot. Better rest here. We go forward now.” 

“‘No, I will keep with thee, my kinsman,” he an¬ 
swered like a child. He was indeed childish through 
great age. 

‘The line had not moved a bowshot when De 
Aquila’s great horn blew for a halt, and soon young 
Fulke — our false Fulke’s son—yes, the imp that 
lit the straw in Pevensey Castle 1 — came thundering 
up a woodway. 

‘“Uncle,” said he (though he was a man grown, 
he called me Uncle), “those young Norman fools who 


1 See Old Men at Pevensey in Puck of Pook’s Hill. 





REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


326 

shot at you this morn are saying that your beaters 
cried treason against the King. It has come to Harry’s 
long ears, and he bids you give account of it. There 
are heavy fines in his eye, but I am with you to the hilt, 
Uncle.” 

‘When the boy had fled back, Hugh said to me: 
“It was Rahere’s witless man cried, ‘’Ware Red Wil¬ 
liam’s arrow!’ I heard him, and so did the Clerk of 
Netherfield.” 

‘“Then Rahere must answer to the King for his 
man,” said I. “Keep him by you till I send,” and I 
hastened down. 

‘The King was with De Aquila in the Grand Stand 
above Welansford down in the valley yonder. His 
Court — knights and dames, lay glittering on the edge 
of the glade. I made my homage, and Henry took 
it coldly. 

‘“How came your beaters to shout threats against 
me?” said he. 

“‘The tale has grown,” I answered. “One old 
witless man cried out, ‘’Ware Red William’s arrow,’ 
when the young knights shot at our line. We had 
two beaters hit.” 

“‘I will do justice on that man,” he answered. 
“ Who is his master ? ” 

“‘He is Rahere’s man,” said I. 

“‘Rahere’s?” said Henry. “Has my fool a fool?” 

‘I heard the bells jingle at the back of the stand, 
and a red leg waved over it, then a black one. So, 
very slowly, Rahere the King’s Jester straddled the 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 327 

edge of the planks, and looked down on us, rubbing 
bis chin. Loose-knit, with cropped hair, and a sad 
priest's face, under his cockscomb cap, that he could 
twist like a strip of wet leather. His eyes were hollow- 
set. 

‘“Nay, nay, Brother," said he. “If I suffer you to 
keep your fool, you must e'en suffer me to keep mine." 

‘This he delivered slowly into the King's angry 
face! My faith, a King's jester must be bolder than 
lions! 

“‘Now we will judge the matter," said Rahere. 
“Let these two brave knights go hang my fool because 
he warned King Henry against running after Saxon 
deer through woods full of Saxons. 'Faith, Brother, if 
ihy Brother, Red William, now among the Saints as we 
hope, had been timely warned against a certain arrow 
in New Forest, one fool of us four would not be 
crowned fool of England this morning. Therefore, 
hang the fool's fool, knights!" 

‘Mark the fool's cunning! Rahere had himself 
given us order to hang the man. No king dare con¬ 
firm a fool's command to such a great baron as De 
Aquila; and the helpless king knew it. 

‘“What? No hanging?" said Rahere, after a 
silence. “A God’s Gracious Name, kill something, 
then! Go forward with the hunt!" 

‘He splits his face ear, to ear, in a yawn like a fish¬ 
pond. “Henry," says he, “the next time I sleep, 
do not pester me with thy fooleries." Then he throws 
himself out of sight behind the back of the stand. 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


328 

‘I have seen courage with mirth in De Aquila and 
Hugh, but stark mad courage of Rahere’s sort I had 
never even guessed at/ 

‘What did the King say ?’ ctied Dan. 

‘He had opened his mouth to speak, when young 
Fulke, who had come into the stand with us laughed, 
and, boy like, once begun, could not check himself. 
He kneeled on the instant for pardon, but fell side¬ 
ways, crying: “His legs! Oh, his long, waving, 
red legs as he went backward!” 

‘Like a storm breaking, our grave King laughed, - 
stamped and reeled with laughter till the stand shook. 
So, like a storm, this strange thing passed! 

‘He wiped his eyes, and signed to De Aquila to let 
the drive come on. 

‘When the deer broke, we were pleased that the 
King shot from the shelter of the stand, and did not 
ride out after the hurt beasts as Red William would 
have done. Most vilely his knights and barons shot! 

‘De Aquila kept me beside him, and I saw no more 
of Hugh till evening. We two had a little hut of 
boughs by the camp, where I went to wash me before 
the great supper, and in the dusk I heard Hugh on the 
couch. 

“‘Wearied, Hugh?” said I. 

‘“A little,” he says. “I have driven Saxon deer 
all day for a Norman King, and there is enough of 
Earl Godwin’s blood left in me to sicken at the work. 
Wait awhile with the torch.” 

‘I waited then, and I thought I heard him sob/ 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 329 

‘Poor Hugh! Was he so tired?’ sard Una, ‘Hob- 
den says beating is hard work sometimes/ 

* I think this tale is getting like the woods/ said Dan, 
‘ darker and twistier every minute/ 

Sir Richard had walked as he talked, and though 
the children thought they knew the woods well enough, 
they felt a little lost. 

‘A dark tale enough/ says Sir Richard, ‘but the 
end was not all black. When we had washed, we 
went to wait on the King at meat in the great pavilion. 
Just before the trumpets blew for the Entry — all the 
guests upstanding — long Rahere comes posturing up 
to Hugh, and strikes him with his bauble-bladder. 

‘“Here’s a heavy heart for a joyous meal!” he says. 
“But each man must have his black hour or where 
would be the merit of laughing? Take a fool’s advice, 
and sit it out with my man. I’ll make a jest to excuse 
you to the King if he remember to ask for you. That’s 
more than I would do for Archbishop Anselm.” 

‘Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. “Rahere?” said 
he. “The King’s Jester? Oh, Saints, what punish¬ 
ment for my King!” and smites his hands together. 

‘“Go:—go fight it out in the dark,” says Rahere, 
“and thy Saxon Saints reward thee for thy pity to my 
fool.” He pushed him from the pavilion, and Hugh 
lurched away like one drunk.’ 

‘But why?’ said Una. ‘I don’t understand/ 

‘Ah, why indeed ? Live you long enough, maiden, 
and you shall know the meaning of many whys.’ Sir 
Richard smiled. ‘I wondered too, but it was my duty 


330 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

to wait on the King at the High Table in all that glitte 
and stir. 

‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helpec 
show him, and he had learned from De Aquila enougl 
of my folk and my castle in Normandy to graciouslj 
feign that he knew and had loved my brother there 
(This, also, is part of a king’s work.) Many grea 
men sat at the High Table — chosen by the King fo] 
their wits, not for their birth. I have forgotten thei] 
names, and their faces I only saw that one night 
But’ — Sir Richard turned in his stride — ‘but Rahere 
flaming in black and scarlet among our guests, tlu 
hollow of his dark cheek flushed with wine — long, 
laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face 
when he was not twisting it about — Rahere I shall 
never forget. 

‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow 
him, with his great bishops and two great barons, to the 
little pavilion. We had devised jugglers and dances 
for the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk gravely 
with grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my 
travels to the world’s end. We had a fire of apple- 
wood, sweet as incense,— and the curtains at the door 
being looped up, we could hear the music and see the 
lights shining on mail and dresses. 

‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The ques¬ 
tions he darted forth at me were as shrewd as the 
flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes, as ye 
called them, at the world’s end. 1 


1 See ‘ The Knights of the Jojous Venture,’ in Puck of Pook’s Hill. 



THE TREE OF JUSTICE 331 

“‘But where is the Saxon knight that went with 
you ?” said Henry. “ He must confirm these miracles.” 

“‘He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new 
miracle.” 

“‘Enough miracles for to-day,” said the King. 
“Rahere, you have saved your long neck. Fetch the 
Saxon knight.” 

‘ “ Pest on it,” said Rahere. “ Who would be a King’s 
jester ? I’ll bring him, Brother, if you’ll see that none 
of your home-brewed bishops taste my wine while I am 
away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms 
at the door. 

‘Henry had made many bishops in England with¬ 
out the Pope’s leave. I know not the rights of the 
matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We waited 
on the King’s next word. 

‘“I think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling, 
to Nigel of Ely. He was one bishop; and William of 
Exeter, the other — Wal-Wist the Saxons called him — 
laughed long. “ Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I 
make him a bishop, De Aquila ?” says the King. 

“‘There might be worse,” said our Lord of 
Pevensey. “ Rahere would never do what Anselm 
has done.” 

‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone 
off raging to the Pope at Rome, because Henry would 
make bishops without his leave either. I knew not the 
rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed. 

“'Anselm means no harm. He should have been 
a monk, not a bishop,” said the King. “I’ll never 





REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


33 * 

quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel with 
my England. If we can keep the King’s peace till 
my son comes to rule, no man will lightly quarrel with 
our England.” 

“‘Amen,” said De Aquila. “But the King’s peace 
ends when the King dies.” 

‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King. 
The custom then is that all laws are outlaw, and men 
do what they will till the new king is chosen. 

‘“I will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I 
will have it so that though King, son, and grandson 
were all slain in one day, still the King’s peace should 
hold over all England! What is a man that his mere 
death must upheave a people ? We must have the 
Law.” 

‘“Truth,” said William of Exeter; but that he would 
have said to any word of the King. 

‘The two great barons behind said nothing. This 
teaching was clean against their stomachs, for when 
the King’s peace ends, the great barons go to war and 
increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s 
voice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against 
William of Exeter: 

“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune 
When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,” 

and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round 
Hugh, and one round the old pilgrim of Netherfield. 

Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, “ and for 
the better disport of the company, here is my fool. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 333 

Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza are clean 
carried away!” 

* Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to 
my side; the old man blinked upon the company. 

‘We looked at the King, but he smiled. 

Rahere promised he would show me some sport 
after supper to cover his morning’s offence,” said he 
to De Aquila. “So this is thy man, Rahere ?” 

‘“Even so,” said Rahere. “My man he has been, 
and my protection he has taken, ever since I found 
him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge telling the 
kites atop of it that he was — Harold of England!” 

‘There was a great silence upon these last strange 
words, and Hugh hid his face on my shoulder, woman- 
fashion. 

‘ “ It is most cruel true,” he whispered to me. “ The 
old man proved it to me at the beat after you left, and 
again in our hut even now. It is Harold, my King!” 

‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the 
man and swallowed. 

‘ “ Bones of the Saints!” said he, staring. 

“‘Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said 
Rahere. 

‘The old man flinched as at an arrow. “Why do 
you hurt me still?” he said in Saxon. “It was on 
some bones of some Saints that I promised I would 
give my England to the Great Duke.” He turns on 
us all crying, shrilly: “Thanes, he had caught me at 
Rouen — a lifetime ago. If I had not promised, I 
should have lain there all my life. What else could I 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


334 

have done ? I have lain in a strait prison all my life 
none the less. There is no need to throw stones at 
me.” He guarded his face with his arms, and 
shivered. 

‘“Now his madness will strike him down,” said 
Rahere. “Cast out the evil spirit, one of you new 
bishops.” 

‘Said William of Exeter: “Harold was slain at 
Hastings fight. All the world knows it.” 

‘“I think this man must have forgotten,” said 
Rahere. “Be comforted, Father. Thou wast well 
slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three months 
and nine days. Tell the King.” 

‘The man uncovered his face. “I thought they 
would stone me,” he said. “I did not know I spoke 
before a King.” He came to his full towering height 
— no mean man, but frail beyond belief. 

‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out 
his own cup of wine. The old man drank, and beck¬ 
oned behind him, and before all the Normans, my 
Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon fashion, upon 
the knee. 

“‘It is Harold!” said De Aquila. “His own stiff* 
necked blood kneels to serve him.” 

‘“Be it so,” said Henry. “Sit, then, thou that 
hast been Harold of England.” 

‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked 
at him between half-shut eyes. We others stared like 
oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere as I 
have seen him watch a far sail on the sea. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 335 

‘The wine and the warmth cast the old man into 
a dream. His white head bowed; his hands hung. 
His eye indeed was opened, but the mind was shut. 
When he stretched his feet, they were scurfed and 
road-cut like a slave’s. 

‘“Ah, Rahere,” cried Hugh, “why hast thou shown 
him thus ? Better have let him die than shame him — 
and me!” 

‘“Shame thee! ” said the King. “Would any baron 
of mine kneel to me if I were witless, discrowned, and 
alone, and Harold had my throne?” 

‘“No,” said Rahere. “I am the sole fool that 
might do it, Brother, unless”— he pointed at De 
Aquila, whom he had only met that day — “yonder 
tough Norman crab kept me company. But, Sir 
Hugh, I did not mean to shame him. He hath been 
somewhat punished through, maybe, little fault of his 
own.” 

‘“Yet he lied to my Father, the Conqueror,” said the 
King, and the old man flinched in his sleep. 

‘“Maybe,” said Rahere, “but thy Brother Robert, 
whose throat we purpose soon to slit with our own 
hands-” 

‘“Hutt!” said the King, laughing. “Ell keep Robert 
at my table for a life’s guest when I catch him. Robert 
means no harm. It is all his cursed barons.” 

‘“None the less,” said Rahere, “Robert may say 
that thou hast not always spoken the stark truth to 
him about England. I should not hang too many 
men on that bough, Brother.” 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


336 

‘“And it is certain,” said Hugh, “that” — he pointed 
to the old man — “Harold was forced to make his 
promise to the Great Duke.” 

‘“Very strongly forced,” said De Aquila. He had 
never any pride in the Duke William’s dealings with 
Harold before Hastings. Yet, as he said, one cannot 
build a house all of straight sticks. 

‘“No matter how he was forced,” said Henry. 
“England was promised to my Father William by 
Edward the Confessor. Is it not so?” William of 
Exeter nodded. “Harold confirmed that promise to 
my Father on the bones of the Saints. Afterward he 
broke his oath and would have taken England by the 
strong hand.” 

Oh! La! La!” Rahere rolled up his eyes like 
a girl. “That ever England should be taken by the 
strong hand!” 

Seeing that Red William and Henry after him had 
each in just that fashion snatched England from 
Robert of Normandy, we others knew not where to 
look; but De Aquila saved us quickly. 

‘“Promise kept or promise broken,” he said, 
“Harold came near enough to breaking us Normans 
at Senlac.” 

‘“Was it so close a fight, then ?” said Henry. 

A hair would have turned it either way,” 
De Aquila answered. “His house-carles stood like 
rocks against rain. Where wast thou, Hugh, 
m it?” 

“‘Among Godwin’s folk beneath the Golden Dragon 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 337 

till your front gave back, and we broke our ranks to 
follow,” said Hugh. 

‘“But I bade you stand! I bade you stand! I 
knew it was all a deceit!” Harold had waked, and 
leaned forward as one crying from the grave. 

“‘Ah, now we see how the traitor himself was 
betrayed!” said William of Exeter, and looked for a 
smile from the King. 

‘“I made thee Bishop to preach at my bidding,” 
said Henry, and turning to Harold, “Tell us here how 
thy people fought us,” said he. “Their sons serve 
me now against my Brother Robert!” 

‘The old man shook his head cunningly. “Na — 
Na— Na,” he cried. “I know better. Every time 
I tell my tale men stone me. But, Thanes, I will 
tell you a greater thing. Listen!” He told us how 
many paces it was from some Saxon Saint’s shrine 
to another shrine; and how many more back to the 
Abbey of the Battle. 

‘“Ay,” said he. “I have trodden it too often to be 
out even ten paces. I move very swiftly. Harold 
of Norway knows that, and so does Tostig my brother. 
They lie at ease at Stamford Bridge, and from Stam¬ 
ford Bridge to the Battle Abbey, it is —” he muttered 
over many numbers and forgot us. 

“‘Ay,” said De Aquila, all in a muse. “That man 
broke Harold of Norway at Stamford Bridge, and 
came near to breaking us at Santlache — all within 
one month.” 

But how did he come alive from Santlache ficrht ? ,f 


338 REWARDS AND FAIRIES 

asked the King. “Ask him! Hast thou heard it, 
Rahere ?” 

‘“Never. He says he has been stoned too often fcr 
telling the tale. But he can count you off Saxon and 
Norman shrines till daylight,” said Rahere, and the 
old man nodded proudly. 

‘“My faith,” said Henry after a while, “I think 
even my Father the Great Duke would pity if he 
could see him.” 

“ How if he does see ?” said Rahere. 

‘Hugh covered his face with his sound hand. “Ah, 
why hast thou shamed him ?” he cried again to Rahere. 

“‘No — no,” says the old man, reaching to pluck 
at Rahere’s cape. “I am Rahere’s man. None 
stone me now,” and he played with the bells on the 
scollops of it. 

‘“How if he had been brought to me when you 
found him ?” said the King to Rahere. 

“‘You would have held him prisoner again — as the 
Great Duke did,” Rahere answered. 

‘“True,” said our King. “He is nothing except 
his name. Yet that name might have been used by 
stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must 
have made him my life’s guest— as I shall make 
Robert.” 

‘“I knew it,” said Rahere. “But while this man 
wandered mad by the wayside, none cared what he 
called himself.” 

‘“I learned to cease talking before the stones flew,* 1 
says the old man, and Hugh groaned. 


THE TREE OF JUSTICE 339 

‘“Ye have heard!” said Rahere. “Witless, land¬ 
less, nameless, and but for my protection, masterless, 
he can still make shift to bide his doom under the open 
sky.” 

‘“Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a 
mock and a shame?” cried Hugh, beside himself 
with woe. 

‘“A right mock and a just shame!” said William 
of Exeter. 

“‘Not to me,” said Nigel of Ely. “I see and I 
tremble, but I neither mock nor judge.” 

“‘Well spoken, Ely,” Rahere falls into the pure 
fool again. “Fll pray for thee when I turn monk. 
Thou hast given thy blessing on a war between two 
most Christian brothers.” He meant the war forward 
’twixt Henry and Robert of Normandy. “I charge 
you, Brother,” he says, wheeling on the King, “dost 
thou mock my fool ?” 

‘The King shook his head, and so then did smooth 
William of Exeter. 

“‘De Aquila, dost thou mock him ?” Rahere jingled 
from one to another, and the old man smiled. 

“‘By the Bones of the Saints, not I,” said our Lord 
of Pevensey. “I know how dooms near he broke 
us at Santlache.” 

“‘Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But 
you, valiant, loyal, honourable and devout barons, 
Lords of Man’s Justice in your own bounds, do you 
mock my fool ?” 

‘He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two 




REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


340 

barorts whose names I have forgotten. “Na —Na!” 
they said, and waved him back foolishly enough. 

‘He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and 
speaks from behind his chair. 

‘“No man mocks thee. Who here judges this 
man? Henry of England—Nigel—De Aquila! 
On your souls, swift with the answer !” he cried. 

‘None answered. We were all — the King not 
least — overborne by that terrible scarlet and black 
wizard-jester. 

“‘Well for your souls,” he said, wiping his brow. 
Next, shrill like a woman: “Oh, come to me!” and 
Hugh ran forward to hold Harold that had slidden 
down in the chair. 

‘“Hearken,” said Rahere, his arm round Harold’s 
neck. “The King — his bishops — the knights — 
all the world’s crazy chessboard — neither mock nor 
judge thee. Take that comfort with thee, Harold of 
England!” 

‘Hugh heaved the old man up and he smiled. 

‘“Good comfort,” said Harold. “Tell me again! 
I have been somewhat punished-” 

‘Rahere hallooed it once more into his ear as the 
head rolled. We heard him sigh, and Nigel of Ely 
stood forth, praying aloud. 

“‘Out! I will have no Norman!” Harold said 
as clearly as I speak now, and he refuged himself on 
Hugh’s sound shoulder, and stretched out, and lay 
all still.’ 

‘Dead ?’ said Una, turning up a white face in the dusk. 


THE TREE OF 3WSTICE 341 

‘That was his good fortune. To die in the King’s 
presence, and on the breast of the most gentlest, truest 
knight of his own house. Some of us envied him/ 
said Sir Richard, and fell back to take Swallow’s 
bridle. 

‘Turn left here,’ Puck called ahead of them from 
under an oak. They ducked down a narrow path 
through close ash plantation. 

The children hurried forward, but, cutting a corner, 
charged full breast into the thorn-faggot that old 
Hobden was carrying home on his back. 

‘My! My!’ said he. ‘Have you scratted your 
face, Miss Una ?’ 

‘Sorry! It’s all right,’ said Una, rubbing her nose. 
‘How many rabbits did you get to-day ?’ 

‘That’s tellin’s,’ the old man grinned as he re-hoisted 
his faggot. ‘I reckon Mus’ Ridley he’ve got rheu¬ 
matism along o’ lyin’ in the dik to see I didn’t snap 
up any. Think o’ that now!’ 

They laughed a good deal while he told them the 
tale. 

‘An’ just as he crawled away I heard some one hol¬ 
lerin’ to the hounds in our woods,’ said he. ‘Didn’t 
you hear ? You must ha’ been asleep sure-ly.’ 

‘Oh, what about the sleeper you promised to show 
us?’ Dan cried. 

‘’Ere he be — house an’ all!’ Hobden dived into 
the prickly heart of the faggot and took out a dor¬ 
mouse’s wonderfully woven nest of grass and leaves. 
His blunt fingers parted it as if it had been preciou* 




342 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


lace, and tilting it toward the last of the light he 
showed the little, red, furry chap curled up inside, 
his tail between his eyes that were shut for their winter 
sleep. 

‘Let’s take him home. Don’t breathe on him/ 
said Una. ‘It’ll make him warm and he’ll wake 
up and die straight off. Won’t he, Hobby?’ 

‘That’s a heap better by my reckonin’ than wakin’ 
up and findin’ himself in a cage for life. No! We’ll 
lay him into the bottom o’ this hedge. Dat’s jus’ 
right! No more trouble for him till come Spring. 
An’ now we’ll go home.’ 


A CAROL 


Our Lord JVho did the Ox command 
To kneel to Judah 9 s King , 

He binds His frost upon the land 
To ripen it for Spring — 

To ripen it for Spring , good sirs, 
According to His Word; 

Which well must be as ye can see —=■ 

And who shall ]udge the Lord? 

When we poor fenmen skate the ice 
Or shiver on the wold , 

We hear the cry of a single tree 

That breaks her heart in the cold —• 
That breaks her heart in the cold , good sirs % 
And rendeth by the board; 

Which well must be as ye can see — 

And who shall judge the Lord? 

Her wood is crazed and little worth 
Excepting as to burn y 
That we may warm and make our mirth 
Until the Spring return — 

Until the Spring return , good sirs, 

When people walk abroad; 

Which well must be as ye can see —- 
And who shall judge the Lord? 

343 


344 


REWARDS AND FAIRIES 


God bless the master of this house, 
And all that sleep therein! 

And guard the fens from pirate folk, 
And keep us all from sin , 

To walk in honesty , good sirs , 

Of thought and deed and word! 
Which shall befriend our latter end 
And who shall judge the Lord? 


THE ENB 


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